IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.1 


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■  10  _ 


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2.5 
2.2 

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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


'%'■ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  Eiistoriques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notas  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


D 


□ 


D 


i/ 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endomma(;ie 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  peliicuide 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  tife  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  cu  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  ie  peut  que  certaines  paget,  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais.  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  f ilmdes. 


The 
to  tl 


L'Institut  a  microf  ilmi  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  iti  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


D 
D 
D 
E 
D 


D 
D 


Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 


The 
post 
of  tl 
filml 


Orig 
begi 
the  I 
sion 
othfl 
first 
sion 
or  ill 


rr]    Showthrough/ 


Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in^gaie  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  matdriei  suppi^mentaire 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


The 
shall 
TINl 
whi( 

Map 
diffe 
entii 
begi 
right 
requ 
met 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  pr*rtially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalen  jnt  ou  partJellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  film6es  d  nouveau  de  fa^on  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6ment&ires: 


Title  page  is  a  photoreproduction. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


re 

lAtails 
BS  du 
Tiodifier 
Br  une 
ilmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

IMacOdrum  Library 
Carlston  University 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
possibis  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grflce  A  la 
gAntrositi  de: 

MaoOdrum  Library 
Carleton  Univenity 

Les  images  suivantes  out  4tA  reproduites  avec  ie 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  I'axemplaire  fiimi,  et  en 
conformit6  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmage. 


^es 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^'  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  filmis  en  commenpant 
par  Ie  premier  pl<it  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  Ie  second 
plat,  salon  Ie  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exempiaires 
originaux  sont  film4s  en  commen9ant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
cas:  Ie  symbole  — »>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  Ie 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


re 


Meps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  mey  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  est  trop  grand  7*our  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche.  11  est  film6  d  p.^rtir 
de  I'angle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


y  errata 
id  to 

nt 

le  pelure, 

9on  d 


32X 


1 

i 

'    i 

3 

1 

4 

s 

6 

e; 


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I' 


ESTELLA'S  HUSBAND;! 


om 


THRICE  LOST,  THRICE  WON. 

PS 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMINa 


/i/So     Z,*"^'^     ^/ 


(.   /C: 


CHICAGO: 
M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  CJo. 


A  LON 

light  stes 
and  darl 
wooden  ( 
table,  CO) 
stony-hea 
huge  gulj 
Christma 
viciously, 
It  was 
rawly  ove 
the  narro 
noon,  wit 
ing  black 
desolate  t 
occupant 
and  dowi 
darkly  in 

An  old 
scanty  gn 
cap,  and  ; 
rows.  F 
twinkled, 
back,  wer 

He  stop 
sound  of  I 
Bonoroush 

"  Four 
lie  told  Si 
would  d&^ 


ESTELLA'S  HUSBAND. 


CHAPTER  L 

K0Y8TEN  DARRELL. 

A  LONG,  low  room,  paneled  in  black  walnut,  the  dim  day- 
light stealing  in  through  the  high,  narrow  windows,  gloomy 
and  dark,  and  almost  unfurnished.  A  few  stiff-backed 
wooden  chairs,  primly  arranged,  round  the  walls,  a  deal 
table,  covered  with  oilcloth,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a 
stony-hearted  old  horpe-hair  sofa — nothing  more.  In  a 
huge  gulf  of  a  fire-place,  wide  enough  to  hold  yule  logs  at 
Christmas-time,  a  fire  of  green  wood  sputtered  and  smoked 
viciously,  and  failed  to  lighten  or  heat  the  somber  room. 

It  was  an  afternoon  early  in  May,  but  a  chill  wind  blew 
rawly  over  the  sea,  and  drifted  the  rain  ceaselessly  against 
the  narrow  windows.  A  hopelessly  wet  and  windy  after- 
noon, with  a  low-lying  black  sky,  frowning  down  on  a  moan- 
ing black  sea,  and  with  trees  tossing  drearily  in  the  wailing, 
desolate  blast.  Desolate  without,  desolate  within,  the  one 
occupant  of  that  eerie  chamber  paced  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  w'th  all  the  gloom  of  the  weather  shadowed 
darkly  in  his  face. 

An  old  man,  bent,  and  withered,  and  wrinkled,  with 
scanty  gray  locks  straggling  from  under  a  rusty  oM  skull- 
cap, and  a  face  seamed  and  drawn  into  innumerable  fur- 
rows. From  under  bushy  gray  brows  two  keen  eyes 
twinkled,  and  the  long,  lean  hands,  clasped  behind  his 
back,  were  hooked  like  the  talons  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

He  stopped  short  in  his  restless  walk  suddenly,  at  the 
sound  of  a  loud-voiced  clock,  somewhere  outside,  striking 
sonorously  four. 

**  Four  o'clock,"  muttered  the  old  man,  angrily,  "  and 
lie  told  Simpson  he  would  be  here  directly.  Some  people 
would  dawdle,  I  believe,  though  th«  crown  of  the  world 


ESTHLLA  *S    H U8BAND. 


awaited  them.  And  yet,  RoyBten  Darrell  is  not  one  of  that 
sort,  either." 

He  walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out.  There 
were  six  windows  to  the  long,  antique  room,  three  looking 
east,  over  a  bare  expanse  of  desolate  marsh  and  swampy 
meadow  land,  and  three  looking  Ws-st,  over  a  bleak,  circu- 
lar beach  and  illimitable  waste  of  sea.  Through  one  of 
these  western  windows  the  old  man  gazed  at  the  lonesome 
prospect — at  the  long,  forsaken  shore,  at  the  rain-beaten 
ocean. 

Far  away  to  the  right  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  strag- 
gling village;  far  away  to  the  left  spread  out  the  sodden 
marshes  and  bare,  windy  beach.  No  living  thing  was  to 
be  seen,  but  about  a  mile  distant,  rising  and  falling  on  the 
long  groundswell,  a  low,  dark  schooner  lay  at  anchor 
within  a  sheltered  curve  of  the  circular  shore. 

*'  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  apostrophizing  this  piratical- 
looking  craft,  "there  you  lie — black  bird  of  ill-omen — 
rightly  named  the  *  Haven. '  There  you  lie,  black  and  for- 
bidding! and  many  a  dark  deed  has  been  done  on  your  pol- 
ished deck,  and  many  a  foul  crime,  I  dare  say,  has  your 
gloomy  hulk  hidden.  There  you  lie,  you  black  buccaneer  I 
fitting  craft  to  be  commanded  by  reckless  Hoysten — by 
Dare-devil  Darrell.  And  yet  there  are  worse  scoundrels 
out  yonder  in  the  world  than  the  mad-headed  smuggler 
captain — fortune-hunters,  with  glib  tongues  and  polished 
manners;  and  ten  to  one  but  the  girl  may  fall  a  victim  to 
one  of  them,  if  I  let  her  go.  Better  marry  Boysten  Dar- 
rell than  one  of  those  black-hearted  hypocrites.  Whatever 
he  is — give  the  devil  his  due — I  don^'t  think  it  is  in  him 
to  be  unkind  to  a  woman." 

He  walked  away  from  the  window  to  the  table,  took  up 
a  letter  lying  there,  and  read  it  over  slowly,  from  begin- 
ning to  end — a  long  letter,  written  in  a  delicate,  spidery 
hand,  and  signed     Helen  Mallory." 

He  laid  it  down,  after  his  slow  perusal,  seated  himself 
before  the  sputtering  fire,  and  gazed  thoughtfully  into  its 
smoky  heart. 

**  And  to  think  he  should  turn  up  at  last — after  over 
sixteen  years,  and  claim  his  child.  To  think  that  he 
should  be  a  nobleman  and  a  millionaire — to  think  that  this 

firl,  half  educated,  half  civilized,  brought  up  by  old  Peter 
isher,  should  have  the  wonderful  sang  azure  of  the  old 


m 


estella's  husband. 


ripime  in  her  yeins,  and  be  this  French  nabob's  sole  heir- 
ess! It  is  like  a  fairy  tale  or  a  melodrama;  it  is  like 
nothing  in  real  life.  Ha!  that  knock!  Heckless  Koysten 
at  last.^' 

A  thundering  knock,  that  made  the  lonely  old  house 
vibrate,  came  to  the  front  door.  The  old  man  smiled 
grimly  as  he  heard  it. 

'*  It  is  characteristic  of  the  man — Dare-devil  Darrell's 
knock  the  wide  world  over.  Big,  blundering,  impetuous 
giant!  Ten  to  one  but  he  refuses  to  make  his  fortune, 
after  all." 

A  slip-shod  footstep  was  heard  straggling  along  the  low 
passage,  a  chain  was  slipped,  a  key  turned,  and  the  house 
door  opened.  Directly  after  there  was  a  scuffle  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  a  boisterous  bass  laugh. 

**  My  Hebe!  my  idol!"  cried  this  boisterous  voice.  **  My 
lovely  Judith,  do  I  again  behold  thee?  Never  squirm  or 
wriggle,  my  fair  one,  but  give  me  a  kiss,  and  have  done 
with  it." 

Here  there  was  a  struggle,  and  a  sounding  slap,  '^Uowed 
by  a  second  jovial  laugh. 

**  It's  like  your  impidence.  Captain  Darrell,"  exclaimed 
a  shrill  female  voice.  '*  If  I'd  a-knowed  it  was  you,  you 
might  a-knocked  the  door  down  afore  I'd  have  opened  it. 
Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  scratch  your  eyes  out" 

A  man's  step  came  bounding  up  the  stairs — each  stride 
making  them  creak  with  his  weight;  then  the  door  was 
flung  open,  and  Captain  Boysten  Darrell,  of  the  schooner 
**  Raven,"  stood  before  old  Peter  Fisher. 

A  magnificent  monster — a  giant  of  six  feet  three,  with 
the  thews  and  sinews  and  muscles  of  a  gladiator — the  build 
of  a  Farnese  Hercules,  and  the  symmetry  of  an  Apollo 
Belvedere.  A  kingly  head,  crowned  with  a  glorious  aure- 
ole of  red-brown  hair;  magnificent  beard  and  mustache  of 
the  same  leonine  hue;  a  broad,  white  forehead;  two  brill- 
iant blue  eyes,  full  of  laughing  light;  a  symmetrical  nose, 
and  a  ruddy  complexion  well  browned  by  exposure  to 
freezing  winds  and  tropic  suns.  An  overgrown  Adonis — a 
human  lion,  a  superb  specimen  of  muscular  Christianity — 
aged  seven-and-twenty  years. 

The  old  man  wheeled  round  in  his  chair,  and  eyed  the 
big  captain  of  the  "  Raven  "  with  a  grim  stare. 

**  At  last,  Roysten  Darrell!    You  nave  kept  me  waitings 


f, 

V 

k 

''I 

i 


t  estella's  husband. 

and  I  hate  people  who  make  me  wait.  Tou  told  Simpaom 
you  would  lollow  him  directly,  and  Simpson  has  been  back 
over  an  hour/* 

**  Simpson  may  go  hang!"  responded  Roysten  Darrell, 
politely,  '*  and  you,  too,  my  Ancient  Mariner,  if  it  comes 
to  that.  Do  you  suppose  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  when 
ashore,  than  daniMtig  attendance  upon  you  and  Simpson? 
It  was  touch-aiid-^o  my  getting  here  at  all,  most  worthy 
old  buffer.  I  had  other  fish  to  fry,  I  can  tell  you.  But 
here  I  am ;  and  now,  what  the  deuce  do  you  want  in  such 
a  hurry?" 

**  To  make  your  fortune,  Roysten  Darrell,  little  as  you 
deserve  it.  So  try  and  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head. 
You're  not  on  the  deck  of  the  *  Raven  '  now,  remember^ 
and  Peter  Fisher  isn't  one  of  your  slaves. " 

**  Make  my  fortune,  eh?"  repeated  Captain  Darrell, 
coolly.  **  Why  don't  you  make  your  own  first,  Mr.  Fisher? 
This  old  rookery  of  yours  will  tumble  about  your  ears  one 
of  these  days.  Take  a  little  of  the  fortune  you  are  going 
to  make  for  me  and  repair  it.  Have  you  found  the  Phi- 
losopher's Stone,  or  Aladdin's  Wonderful  Lamp,  or  a  cruci- 
ble to  turn  all  metals  into  gold?  or  have  you  come  upon  a 
buried  treasure,  or  what?  I  have  no  objection  to  have  my 
fortune  made,  and  it's  slow  work  making  it  in  the  *  Raven.' 
The  revenue  cutters  were  within  an  ace  of  having  me, 
orew  and  cargo,  this  last  time." 

**  They'd  have  had  you  long  ago,  if  you  had  been  an 
honester  man;  but  Satan  is  go^  to  his  own.  However, 
your  fortune  is  made,  and  within  your  grasp  now,  if  you 
choose  to  reach  out  your  hand  and  take  it. " 

"  Then,  by  Jove,  I  choose!  Just  have  the  goodness 
to  explain  yourself  a  little. " 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  and  his  keen,  ferret  eyes 
peered  sharply  into  the  brilliant  blue  orbs  of  the  stalwart 
captain. 
.   **  Roysten  Darrell,  have  you  any  objection  to  a  wife?" 

*'!Not  the  least  in  life!  To  a  dozen,  if  you  choose. 
Have  yoti  found  me  one?" 

**  I  have — an  heiress — a  millionaire's  only  child." 

*'  Good!  It  has  been  the  ambition  of  my  life  to  marry 
a  millionaire's  daughter.  But  where  is  she?  I  didn't 
know  millionaires  existed  over  in  yon  big  fishing  village  of 
Rockledge." 


\ 


,,  i 


tr 


1/ 


)^ 


18TELLA  8    HUSBAND. 


**  No  more  do  they.  She  isn't  in  Rockledge;  she  is  here, 
in  this  house." 

"  Thousand  thunders!**  cried  Roysten  Darrell,  in  his 
boisterous  voice.  **  You  don't  mean  old  Judith?  By 
Jupiter!  I'm  not  of  a  fastidious  stomach  in  these  matters, 
but  ril  be  hanged  if  I  could  bring  myself  to  such  a  pitch 
as  that.  No,  my  worthy  old  crony,"  said  the  captain  of 
the  **  Raven,"  making  a  wry  face,  *' if  Judith  is  your, 
heiress,  you'll  allow  me  to  decline.  Much  obliged  to  you^ 
though,  all  the  same." 

**I)on't  be  a  fool,  Darrell!"  exclaimed  Peter  Fisher, 
angrily,  ''  and  don't  lift  the  roof  with  that  big  voice  of 
yours.  I  don't  mean  Judith,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do;  I 
mean  Estella  Mallorv." 

''  What!  Little  Estella?  But,  mon  ami,  she's  only  a 
child." 

*'  She's  over  sixteen  years.  Captain  Darrell,  and  a  good- 
looking,  well  jrown  girl.  You  objected  to  age  a  moment 
ago — now  you  object  to  youth.     Pray  what  will  you  have?" 

'*  I'll  have  little  Estella  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life. 
The  question  is,  will  Estella  have  me?  She  scuds,  like  a 
frightened  deer,  at  the  first  glimpse  of  me. " 

No  wonder,  with  your  rough  ways,  and  your  thunder- 
ous voice,  and  your  ponderous  six  foot  three.  But  I'll 
make  that  all  right — she'll  do  whatever  I  tell  her,  or  I'll 
know  the  reason  why.  And  you'll  marry  her?  Give  me 
your  hand  on  that,  feoysten  Darrell." 

The  captain  of  the  **  Raven  "  stretched  out  his  big 
brown  paw,  and  gave  one  of  the  lean  talons  a  grip  that 
made  the  old  man  wince. 

**  I'll  marry  her  fast  enough,  and  every  other  pretty  girl 
from  Maine  to  Florida,  if  you  like.  But  where's  your 
heiress?  where's  your  millionaire?  I  thought  little  Estella 
was  an  orphan." 

**  So  diet  I  until  within  the  last  day  or  two,  when  a  letter 
comes  and  tells  me  her  papa  has  most  unexpectedly  turned 
up.  He  is  a  French  nobleman,  worth  a  mint  of  money,  and 
Estella — when  he  finds  her — is  his  heiress  and  only  child.** 

**  A  marvelous  tale,"  said  Captain  Darrell;  '*  so  mar- 
velous, my  old  friend,  that  I  can't  swallow  it  at  the  first 
fulp.  Who  is  this  Estella  Mallory  (Mallorv  hasn't  a  very 
rench  sound,  by  the  way),  and  how  does  old  Peter  Fisher, 
of  Fisher's  Folly,  come  to  be  the  adopted  father  of  French 


>'.■' 

■} 

''■i 


10 


estella's  husband. 


noblemen's  daughters?  You'll  exonse  my  onrioBity,  bat 
if  Tm  to  marry  the  young  lady,  it  strikes  me  I  should  like 
to  know  something  of  her  antecedents. " 

'*You  shall  know  all,"  said  Peter  Fisher.  **  Her 
mother,  Estclla  Mallory  (yes,  the  girl  bears  her  mother's 
name,  not  her  father's),  eloped  at  tlie  agd  of  eighteen  with 
an  unknown  foneigner,  her  music  teacher — a  poor  devil, 
with  nothing  but  a  handsome  face,  a  black  mut  taohe,  and 
a  high-sounding  name— an  exile.  Whether  she  was  his 
wife  or  not  did  not  appear,  and  the  Mallory  family — proud 
as  the — as  your  best  friend,  Captain  Darrell — were  shocked 
and  horrified,  and  scandalized  beyond  everything.  How 
she  spent  the  first  year  of  her  union  with  Monsieur  Haut- 
ville  does  not  appear — wretchedly  enough,  I  infer,  in  pov- 
erty and  loneliness.  The  first  thing  that  is  known  of  her, 
she  turns  up  here — she  comes  to  me  in  her  misery  and 
utter  friendliness  for  shelter  and  succor.  1  had  known 
pretty  Estella  Mallory  when  a  graceful  girl  of  fifteen,  and 
she  came  to  me  in  preference  to  the  home  she  had  aban- 
doned forever.  She  came  in  poverty  and  sickness,  and  I 
took  her  in  and  did  my  best  for  her.  But  that  best  could 
not  save  her  life — she  went  to  her  grave,  a  broken-hearted 
woman,  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  In  this  house  her  child 
was  born,  and  we  named  her  after  the  mother  that  was  dead 
and  gone." 

The  grim  old  face  grew  a  shade  less  grim,  as  he  told  the 
story — the  every-day  story  of  a  woman's  woe.  Boysten 
Darrell  listened  intently. 

"  And  monsieur — how  do  you  call  him?  the  gay  deceiver 
—where  is  he?" 

**In  France.  With  the  overthrow  of  the  old  dynasty, 
and  the  rise  of  the  Napoleonic  star,  he  went  back  to  be 
reinstated  in  the  old  title  and  the  old  estates.  That  was 
all  the  dying  girl  could  or  would  tell  me;  but  I  know  she 
thought  he  had  deserted  her.  She  wore  his  wedding- 
ring,  she  showed  me  her  marriage  certificate — but  she  never 
looked  to  see  his  faco  in  this  world  a^ain.  No  letter,  no 
message  ever  came — she  died  believing  herself  betrayed  and 
deserted.  And  yet  it  seems  it  was  not  so;  after  sixteen 
years  our  French  noble  turns  up  and  claims  his  child." 

'*  How  does  he  discover  he  has  one?"  asked  Captain 
Darrell. 

**  From  his  dead  wife's  only  sister  and  sole  living  relft- 


E8TELLA*S    HUSBAND. 


11 


u 


tire,  Helen  Mallory.  He  returns  to  this  country,  anxious 
to  make  reparation — to  own  his  marriage,  to  claim  hiH 
wife.  His  wife  he  can  not  find — her  siHter  he  does,  and 
lenrns  Estella  is  dead  and  buried,  and  her  daughter  and 
living  image  lives  and  bears  her  name.  He  is  immensely 
rich — he  has  his  ancient  title — he  burns  to  behold  his 
daughter,  and  claim  her  as  his  heiress.  But  Helen  Mal- 
lory neither  forgives  nor  forgets  the  past;  his  tardy  repent- 
ance does  not  move  her;  she  refuses  to  tell  him  where  that 
daughter  is  to  be  found.  *  1  will  write  to  her  guardian,  M. 
le  Comte,'  she  says,  coldly;  *  you  have  little  claim  to  my 
dead  sister's  child.  I  will  tell  Mr.  Fisher  what  you  have 
told  me;  if  he  is  ready  to  resign  the  girl  he  has  adopted  and 
reared  from  infancy,  well  and  good;  if  not — you  must 
seek  her  and  find  her  for  yourself,  without  any  clew  from 
me.'  She  keeps  her  word— this  haughty  Helen  Mallory; 
her  letter  came  two  days  ago.  Monsieur  the  Count  offers 
immense  rewards  for  his  heiress;  he  is  ready  to  pay  any 
sum  1  may  demand.  Here  is  the  letter — read  for  your- 
self.'' 

The  old  man  took  the  letter  from  the  table  and  passed 
it  to  the  captain  of  the  *'  Baven."  Boysten  Darrell  read 
it  carefully  from  beginning  to  end. 

**  A  very  nice  letter  and  a  very  good  turn-up  for  you  ! 
But  you'll  excuse  my  dullness,  Mr.  Slsher,  if  I  say  I  don't 
see  clearly  how  all  this  is  to  benefit  me  !" 

**  In  the  easiest  way  imaginable — as  the  girl's  husband. 
Look  here,  Roysten — you  marry  her  before  she  knows  any- 
thing of  her  good  fortune.  When  this  wealthy  French 
count  finds  his  daughter,  he  finds  his  daughter's  husband 
also.  What  belongs  to  your  wife  belongs  to  you;  you  claim 
her  fortune,  and  you — share  that  fortune  with  me. " 

"Exactly!'  replied  Captain  Darrell,  coolly;  '* and  the 
lion's  share,  too,  I  take  it.  A  very  charming  scheme,  Mr. 
Peter  Fisher,  but  not  altogether  practicable.  In  the  first 
place,  little  Estella  won't  marry  me — you'll  find  she  won't 
— and  these  girls  can  be  as  determined  as  the  deuce,  when 
they  choose.  In  the  second  place,  supposing  you  compel 
her  to  marry  me,  she  won't  live  with  me  an  hour  after 
she  finds  her  rich  father.  And  what  do  you  suppose  that 
ariRtooratic  papa  will  say  to  a  son-in-law  who  weds  his 
daughter,  willy-nilly,  after  he  finds  out  she  has  a  fortune? 


i 


12 


jjstella's  husband. 


What  will  M.  le  Comte  think  of  you?  what  will  he  think  ojf 
me?" 

**  Whatever  he  pleases.  You  will  be  hev  husband  all  the 
same,  and  it  will  be  rather  late  in  the  day  for  an  esclandre. 
Monsieur  the  Count  must  put  up  with  the  inevitable.  At 
the  worst,  there  will  be  a  compromise  and  a  divorce,  and 
you  will  bleed  the  Parisian  nabob  to  the  tune  of  half  his 
fortune.  Half  of  that  half  you  will  hand  over  to  me,  and 
it  will  make  us  both  rich  for  life.  What  do  you  say,  Roy- 
•ten  Darrell — will  you  make  a  bold  stroke  for  fortune,  and 
marry  the  girl  out  of  hand?*' 

Peter  Fisher  leaned  forward,  his  greedy  old  eyes  glisten- 
ing. 

The  brilliant  blue  orbs  of  the  captain  met  that  eager 
gaze  with  imperturbable  sang  froid. 

**  Yon  cold-blooded  old  reprobate!"  he  said,  taking  out 
a  cigar  and  biting  off  the  end.  "  You're  a  deeperSyed 
villain  than  /  am;  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal.  You 
have  brought  up  this  girl  from  babyhood — you  stand 
pledged  to  her  dead  mother,  who  trusted  you,  for  her  wel- 
lare;  and  here  you  are,  bartering  her  off,  as  though  she  were 
a  little  slave-girl  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer.  Why, 
you  thundering  Old  crocodile,  have  you  no  bowels  of  com- 
passion? Don't  you  know  you  are  trying  your  hardest  to 
make  her  miserable  for  life? 

The  old  man  listened  unmoved,  an  evil  sneer  on  his 
withered  face. 

**  Satan  turned  saint!  Roysten  Darrell  changed  into  a 
second  St.  Kevin!  Go — there's  the  door!  Go  back  to  the 
'  Raven,'  and  let  the  revenue  officers  take  you,  and  rot  in 
prison  for  me.  You're  a  greater  fool  than  I  took  you  to 
be!" 

**  Thank  you,  old  messmate!  I  believe  I  will  go,  for  1 
'hare  business  to  attend  to  that  id  rather  pressing.  How 
soon  is  pretty  little  Estella  to  become  Mrs.  Roysten  Dar- 
rell?" 

*'  Ah,  I  thought  your  scruples  would  end  in  that  way! 
You  will  marry  her,  then?" 

**  Most  assuredly.  Do  you  think  me  capable  of  refus- 
ing so  small  a  favor  to  a  lady?  1*11  marry  her  to-morrow, 
if  you  choose,  and  take  her  with  me  for  a  honey-moon  cruise 
in  the  *  Raven. '  Meantime,  you  can  settle  matters  with 
papa,  and  when  we  return,  Mrs.  Darrall,  heartily  sick  of 


estella's  husband. 


13 


the  sea  and  of  matrimony,  I  shall  be  ready  for  that  divorce 
and  half  of  the  millionaire's  fortune.  Good-evening  to 
you,  old  hypocrite!  Settle  matters  with  the  young  lady — 
tell  lies  by  the  yard — ril  swear,  through  thick  and  thin,  to 
all  you  assert.  To-morrow,  about  this  time,  I'll  be  along 
again  to  hear  the  result.*' 

He  rose  up,  and  swung  off  with  his  long,  sailor  stride. 

Peter  Fisher  watched  him  out  of  the  room,  with  a  grim 
glance,  and  heard  the  house-door  close  after  him  with  a 
bang  that  made  him  wince. 

"  The  devil  take  him!"  muttered  the  old  man.  "  He'll 
smash  every  hinge  in  the  house  if  he  comes  here  often.  If 
there  were  any  other  way — but  there  is  not,  and  she  must 
marry  him.  After  all,  a  divorce  will  set  everything  right 
again.  I  will  have  feathered  my  nest,  and  away  in  France, 
who  will  be  the  wiser?  It  must  be.  I'll  break  it  to  her  at 
once. " 

He  seized  a  hand-bell  on  the  table  ^nd  rang  a  vigorous 
peal. 

The  summons  was  answered  by  fi  gaunt  old  woman,  as 
grim,  and  wrinkled,  and  withered  as  her  master. 

'*  Send  Estella  Mallory  here,  Judith,"  her  master  said. 
**  Tell  her  to  come  at  once." 

The  gaunt  domestic  departed  without  a  word,  and  Peter 
Fisher  sat  staring  nervously  into  the  smoky  JSre. 

Outside,  the  rain  beat,  and  the  wind  blew,  and  the  dusk 
of  the  dismal  spring  day  already  darkened  the  dismal  room. 

The  old  man  shivered  as  the  shrill  gale  whistled  round 
the  lonely  gables. 

*'  After  all,"  he  muttered,  **  she  ought  to  be  glad  to  get 
away  from  this  grewsome  place — glad  of  anything  for  a 
change.  Roysten  Darrell's  a  handsome  fellow,  and  girls 
all  like  to  be  married.  1  hope  she  won't  object.  I  don't 
'want  to  use  force.  There's  a  look  of  her  dead  mother  in 
her  big,  brown  eyes  sometimes  that —  Oh«  here  she 
comes!" 


■•i\ 


CHAPTER  II. 

ESTELLA. 

There  was  the  quick  pattering  of  li^ht  feet  down  ihA 
long,  steep  stairs— the  last  three  cleared  with  a  jump — 


14 


estella's  husbaxd. 


then  the  door  flew  open,  and  Peter  Fisher's  ward  stood^ 
brightly  smiling,  on  the  threshold. 

The  fire  leaped  up  as  she  entered,  as  if  briofhtened  by  her 
bright  presence,  and  lighted  the  dusky  room.  The  old 
man  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  nnd  looked  furtively 
at  her,  thinking,  in  spite  of  himself,  what  a  contrast  she 
was  to  his  late  visitor — to  the  gigantic  oaptain  of  the 
'*  Raven,"  and  his  gaunt,  grim  old  nousekeeper. 

She  stood  before  him — a  tall,  slender  damsel,  with  a 
pale,  rather  thin  face,  and  the  evident  consciousness  of 
having  too  many  arms,  which  it  is  in  the  nature  of  sixteen 
years  to  have.  Great  brown  eyes,  dark,  deep-shining, 
lighted  up  this  pale,  girlish  face — not  beautiful  yet,  but 
full  of  the  serene  promise  of  future  beauty.  Beautiful  eyes 
— now  black  and  sparkling,  now  soft  and  glowing  with 
umber  light,  reminding  you  of  Balzac's  "  Girl  with  the 
Golden  Eyes." 

With  these  wondrous  brown  eyes  went  a  wondrous  fall 
of  hazel  hair,  rippling,  waving,  shining,  down  to  her  slen- 
der waist — a  glorious  chevehire,  that  would  have  driven  a 
fashionable  belle  wild  with  envy. 

She  stood  before  him  there,  in  the  fire-light,  so  brightly 
pretty  that  it  was  a  pleasure  only  to  look  at  her. 

**  Her  mother's  image,"  old  Peter  Fisher  thought,  with 
a  little  nervous  tremor.  *'  It  is  like  ^jceing  the  ghost  of  the 
dead." 

**  You  sent  for  me.  Uncle  Fisher?"  the  girl  asked,  in 
her  fresh,  young  voice.  *'  Judith  told  ma  you  wanted  to 
see  me  very  particularly." 

**  And  so  1  do.  Come  in,  child,  and  shut  the  door. 
Take  that  seat— I  have  something  very  important  to  say  to 
you." 

The  bright,  brown  eyes  opened  wide,  &nd  fixed  them- 
selves in  a  frank  stare  of  astonishment  on  the  seamed  old 
face. 

In  all  her  sixteen  years'  experience,  Mr.  l^'isher  never 
had  had  anything  of  importance  to  say  to  her  before. 

The  old  man  shifted  in  his  chair,  and  leaned  back  further 
into  the  shadow,  strangely  uneasy  under  that  c'ear  gaze. 

**  Do  you  know  how  old  you  are,  Estella?"  he  asked. 

**  Why,  yes,  uncle;  sixteen,  last  March." 

'*  Sixteen  years  and  three  months^  and  a  young  woman^ 
BsteUa" 


ESTELLA'S    HUBBA^ND. 


15 


Estella  Mftllory  laughed — a  clcar^  sweet  laugh. 

'*  I  hope  I  am  nothing  half  so  stupid.  A  young  woman! 
How  prim  and  dowdyish  it  sounds!  One  is  only  a  girl  at 
sixteen.  Time  enough  to  be  a  young  'oman  wnen  one  is 
two-or  three-and- twenty." 

'*  Pooh!  nonsense!  You're  as  much  of  a  woman  almoet 
as  you'll  ever  be — a  strong,  well-grown  girl.  Plenty  of 
women  are  married  before  they're  your  age." 

Miss  Mallory  shrugged  her  graceful  shoulders. 

'*  They  must  be  in  a  hurry,  uncle.     If  there's  one  thinr 
more  stupid  and  dowdyish  than  being  a  *  young  woman, 
it  is  to  be  married.     Is  this  what  you  sent  for  me  to  talk 
»bout?" 

It  was  quite  evident  Mr.  Fisher's  ward  was  not  in  the 
least  awe  of  her  grim  guardian.  And,  indeed,  you  needed 
but  look  once  into  those  bright,  frank  eyes  to  see  that  utter 
fearlessness  was  a  characteristic  of  the  girl's  nature. 

"  Estella,"  said  the  old  man,  shifting  his  base,  "  aren't 
you  tired  of  this  place — of  this  lonely  old  house — of  those 
dreary  marshes — of  that  everlasting  sea — of  that  stupid 
Rockledge?" 

**  Dreadfully  tired,  uncle — tired  to  death  of  it  all  ages 
ago. " 

'*  And  you  would  like  to  leave  it,  wouldn't  you?"  eager- 
ly. **  To  travel  and  see  the  world,  to  visit  great  cities,  to 
be  yoiir  own  mistress,  and  quit  Fisher's  Folly  forever?" 

The  brown  eyes  dilated;  the  pretty  lips  came  breathlessly 
apart. 

**  Uncle,  what  do  you  mean?  Are  you  going  to  send  me 
away?  Oh!"  clasping  the  little  hands  in  sudden  rapture, 
"  perhaps  you.  are  going  to  send  me  to  school." 

**  No,  my — my  dear.  That  would  not  be  freedom — only 
another  more  irksome  kind  of  bondage.  Boarding-school 
girls  are  veritable  slaves,  and  half-starved  at  that  No, 
no,  Estella!  I  mean  something  better  than  that." 

**  Then,  perhaps  yo«  are  going  to  quit  Rockledge  your- 
self, and  take  me  and  Judith  with  you.  That  would  be 
nice. " 

*'  Better  still,  Estella.     Can  not  you  guess?" 

Miss  Mallory  shook  Ler  brown  curls. 

**  No,  uncle,  I  can't  travel  over  the  world  alone;  and, 
unless  you  are  going  to  take  me,  1  give  it  up!" 

'*  My  dear,"  the  old  man  said,  his  voice  trembling  witk 


» 

\ 
I 


II 


estella's  husband. 


eagerness,  **  you  need  not  go  alone.  A  younger  and  hand* 
8omer  man  will  take  you.  You  are  old  enough  to  be  mar- 
ried, Estella.     You  shall  go  as  a  bride!" 

Estella  Mallory  gave  a  little,  gasping  cry,  then  sat  star- 
ing in  speechless  astonishment. 

**  You  lii£e  young  and  handsome  men — don't  yoU;  my 
dear?  All  young  girls  do.  And  he's — he's  very  much  in 
Jove  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Peter  Fisher,  bringing  the  words 
out  with  a  gulp,  **  and  ready  to  do  anything  under  the  sun 
for  you.  He  will  take  you  everywhere.  To  New  York — 
and  New  York  is  a  wonderful  city,  Estella— to  foreign 
jiwids,  if  you  wish.  He  will  be  your  slave;  every  wish  of 
aurs  will  be  his  law.  You  shall  have  silk  gowns,  and  gold 
ear-rings,  and  cart-loads  of  those  novels  you  like  so  much^ 
;<  nd  everything  your  heart  can  desire.  All  he  asks  in  return 
i«  that  you  marry  him — this  week." 

**  This  week!"  gasped  the  stricken  Eotella;  "good 
gracious  me  !    Uncle  Fisher,  who  are  you  talking  about?" 

**  About  the  man  who  loves  you  so  much,  Estella,"  re- 
plied Uncle  Fisher,  with  ghastly  playfulness.  **  Can't  you 
guess  his  name?" 

**  Does  he  ever  come  here?" 

**  Yes,  my  dear — often. " 

"  Then  1  give  it  up,"  said  Estella,  promptly,  "  for  I 
never  saw  a  young  and  handsome  man  inside  this  house  in 
my  life." 

'*  Think,  my  dear — think.     Try  again." 

**  Think!"  repeated  Estella;  '*  it  doesn't  require  any 
thinking.  There's  Mr.  Jacobs,  the  minister,  he  comes 
here,  and  he's  got  a  bald  head,  and  a  wife  and  five  chil- 
dren. There's  Doctor  Skinner,  he  drops  in  sometimes, 
and  he's  a  widower  of  sixty-live,  with  granddaughters 
older  than  I  am.  There's  the  butcher  and  the  grocer,  they 
come  after  their  bills  monthly,  and  they're  both  married 
men,  and  old  and  ugly  as  original  sin.  There's  your  law- 
yer— old  Grimshaw — with  a  face  like  a  death's-head,  who 
has  buried  three  wives  and  is  looking  out  for  a  fourth. 
Perhaps  it  is  Mr.  Grimshaw,  uncle;  though  if  you  think 
him  either  young  or  handsome,  you  must  be  taking  leave 
of  your  senses." 

Mr.  Fisher  laughed  a  feeble,  little  laugh. 

*'  Ha!  ha!  my  dear;  very  good!  But  it  isn't  Mr.  Grim- 
aluiw,  nor  any  of  those  you  have  mentioned.     Try  again." 


ebtella's  husband. 


1? 


*' Where's  the  use?"  exclaimed  Estella,  impatiently. 
**  I  never  see  any  one  else  here.     I  can't  guess.      Who  is 

it?" 

**  My  dear,  he  was  here  this  very  afternoon." 

Estella  Mallory  gave  a  cry,  and  fairly  sprung  from  her 
chair. 

**  Uncle!  Mr.  Fisher!  You  never  mean  to  say  you're 
talicing  of  the  smuggler  captain — of  that  great,  big,  red- 
headed monster.  Captain  Darrell?" 

"  I'll  thanic  you  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head. 
Miss  Mallory!"  said  Peter  Fisher,  sharply.  **  les,  I  mean 
the  captain  of  the  '  Baven.'  A  young  and  handsome  man, 
miss,  if  there  ever  was  one  yet. 

"  Oh!"  cried  Estella. 

It  was  all  she  could  say.  She  dropped  back  in  her  chair, 
mute  with  amazement. 

**  Captain  Darrell  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  he  wants 
to  many  you.  He'll  take  you  on  board  the  *  Raven '  any- 
where in  the  wide  world  you  would  like  to  go. " 

*'  I'd  see  Captain  Darrell  and  the  '  Kaven  '  at  the  bottom 
of  the  Red  Sea  first!"  burst  out  Estella  Mallory,  her  pale 
face  turning  crimson  with  indignation;  **  that  great,  fright- 
ful, overgrown,  wicked  wretch!  Why,  if  there  is  any  one 
man  in  the  whole  world  1  have  a  horror  of,  it  is  that  mani 
A  smuggler — a  pirate — a — " 

**  Silence  /"  thundered  Peter  Fisher,  starting  to  his 
feet;  *^  you  bold  minx,  how  dare  you  say  such  things  of  any 
friend  of  mine?  Captain  Darrell  is  a  thousand  times  too 
good  for  you — a  nameless  pauper — and  does  you  a  thou- 
sand times  too  much  honor  by  taking  any  notice  of  you  at 
all." 

**  I  don't  want  him  to  take  any  notice  of  me,"  responded 
the  young  lady,  rather  sulkily.     **  I  hate  him!" 

*'  You  shall  marry  him  for  all  that.  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  keep  you  on  my  hands  forever — a  burden  and  a 
drag?  I  always  resolved  you  should  marry  the  first  decent 
man  who  asked  you,  and  Roysten  Darrell  is  the  first,  and 
you  shall  marry  him  I" 

**  I  sha'n't!"  returned  Estella,  with  resolute  defiance, 

'*  and  he  isn't  a  decent  man!    I  know  what  they  SLy  of 

him  in  the  village;  1  know  how  the  revenue  cutters  chase 

hha;   1  know  how  he  killed  one  of  his  men  who  informed 


1 1 
I 

i\ 


'-'"f: 


■ 


18 


estella's  husband. 


on  him  two  years  ago — split  his  skull  open  with  a  crowbar; 
I  know—" 

**  1  know  you'll  get  your  neck  twisted,  or  your  skull 
split  open,  if  you  don't  mind  what  you  say!"  shrieked  the 
old  man,  in  a  fury.  '*  Hold  your  poisonous  tongue,  miss^ 
and  hear  me  out!  Koysteu  Darrell  wants  to  marry  you, 
and  whether  you  like  it,  or  whether  you  don't,  marry  hirx 
you  shall,  before  you  are  a  week  older.  Do  you  hear^ 
Estella  Mallory?  Marry  him  you  shall  before  another 
week!" 

*'  1  hear,"  said  Estella,  getting  up  resolutely,  *'  and  1 
wonH !  No,  Mr.  Fisher,  not  if  you  were  to  kill  me!  I'm 
afraid  of  that  man — I  hate  him !  and  I'd  die  a  thousand 
times  before  I'd  ever  be  a  wife  of  his!" 

**  Dying  is  very  easy  in  theory — very  hard  in  practice. 
Young  ladies  of  sixteen  will  do  a  good  deal  before  they  die. 
A  week's  imprisonment  on  bread  and  water  will  cool  the 
fever  in  your  blood,  and  bring  down  that  high  spirit  a 
little.  1  won't  lock  you  up  to-night.  I'll  give  you  a  last 
chance.  But  if,  by  to-morrow,  when  Captain  Darrell 
comes  here  for  his  answer,  that  answer  is  not  *  Yes!'  up  you 
go  to  the  attic,  there  to  stay  among  the  rats  and  beetles 
until  the  yes  comes!" 

Estella  shuddered,  but  walked  determinedly  to  the  door. 

**  Stop!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  also  rising.  "  Hear  me 
out!  Don't  think  of  escape.  You  have  neither  money  nor 
friends — you  stand  utterly  alone  in  the  wide  world,  depend- 
ent on  me.  No  one  in  the  village  will  help  or  harbor  you. 
You  are  entirely  in  my  power,  to  do  with  as  I  choose.  If  1 
locked  you  up  until  the  rats  gnawed  the  flesh  off  your  bones, 
and  nothing  but  your  rattling  skeleton  remained,  who 
would  be  the  wiser?  Think  better  of  it,  my  good  girl,  and 
when  Captain  Darrell  comes  here  to-morrow,  be  ready  to 
say  *  yes,   and  '  thank  you.'    Now  go." 

The  girl  left  the  room  without  a  word.  In  the  dim  light 
of  the  dusky  passage  she  was  deathly  pale,  but  the  youthful 
face  looked  fixed  and  resolute  as  doom. 

She  walked  to  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and 
looked  out.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  whistled 
shrilly  and  rant  the  black,  jagged  clouds  wildly  hither 
and  thither. 

The  sea  tossed  wild  and  white,  with  a  roar  like  thunder, 
and  dim,  and  dark,  and  far  od  she  could  just  make  out 


estella's  husband. 


19 


;h  a  crowbai; 

Dr  your  skull 
shrieked  the 
iongMQ,  miss, 

0  marry  you, 
,  marry  hin 
►o  you  hear, 
fore  another 

tely,  "andl 
ill  me!  I'm 
e  a  thousand 

1  in  practice, 
ore  they  die. 
mil  cool  the 
iiigh  spirit  a 
^e  you  a  last 
tain  Darrell 
Iq&V  up  you 
I  and  beetles. 

to  the  door. 

"  Hear  me 
r  money  nor 
rid,  depend- 
harbor  you. 

oose.  If  1 
[your  bones, 
ained,  who 
girl,  and 
ready  to 

|e  dim  light 
le  youthful 

hall,  and 
id  whistled 
[dly  hither 

|e  thunder, 
make  out 


the  '*  Raven,''  outlined  against  the  gloomy  skv.  Either 
the  sight,  or  the  raw,  rattling  blast,  made  her  shiver  from 
head  to  foot. 

**  It  is  easier  to  die,**  she  said  to  herself,  her  brown  eyes 
looking  black  under  her  bent  brows.  **  He  is  a  robber 
and  a  murderer — an  outlaw  and  a  villain— a  wretch  for 
whom  the  gallows  is  waiting!  Better  be  eaten  alive  by  the 
rats  up  in  the  attic,  than  live  an  hour  with  liim  !  But, 
oh !  I  don't  understand  it  all.  What  on  earth  can  he  want 
to  marry  me  for?  I  won't  marry  him,  and  I  won't  be 
locked  up!  You'll  see,  Mr.  Fisher  I  This  is  Dick's  night 
—dear,  clever  old  Dick — and  he  will  tell  me  how  to  outwit 
them  both.'' 


[J 

1.1 

1 1 


CHAPTER    III. 

DICK  DERWENT   PLOTS. 

Peter  Fisher's  dreary  dwelling— Fisher's  Folly — stood 
as  dismally  isolated  from  other  dwellings  as  a  house  could 
well  stand.  A  long,  dark,  rambling  old  place,  gloomier 
without  than  within,  if  possible,  perched  on  a  windy  cliff 
overlooking  the  lonely  sea.  Far  away  on  either  hand 
spread  the  desolate  marshes  and  arid  fields,  burned  dry 
under  the  broiling  sea-side  sun.  Three  miles  off  lay  Rock- 
ledge— the  little  country  town;  and  the  road  between  Rock- 
ledge  and  Fisher's  Folly  was  as  lonely  and  dismal  a  stretch 
of  road  as  you  could  find  in  a  long  year's  search. 

Those  ghastly  fields— those  sodden  marshes,  dotted  with 
elumps  of  gloomy  cedars — spread  out  unutterably  grewsome 
after  dusk,  and  very  rare  was  it,  indeed,  to  meet  a  human 
being  on  that  deserted  road  once  the  gloaming  fell. 

But  on  this  wild  and  windy  May  night,  a  tall  young  man 
•trode  cheerily  along  the  lonesome  path,  whistling  a  lively 
tune.  A  tall  and  slender  youth  of  one-or  two-and-twenty, 
with  a  frank,  good-looking,  high-colored  face,  and  merry, 
light-blue  eyes.  A  young  man  on  whose  boyish  face  the 
callow  down  was  just  beginning  to  crop  up  in  palest  hues, 
and  whose  long  legs  measurS  off  the  ground  in  seven- 
league  strides. 

Under  his  arm  he  carried  a  bundle  of  books,  in  tattered 
paper  covers,  and  as  he  whistled  along  he  cast  anxious 
glances  now  and  then  up  at  the  overcast  sky.     The  rain 


'-n 


\  { 


M 


estella's  husband. 


had  entirely  ceased,  but  the  wind  blew  a  gale,  and  the 
black  clouds  scudded  wildly  before  it  over  the  stomiy  sky. 
**  Anasty  nightl"  the  young  man  muttered — **  cold,  and 
raw,  and  bleak  for  my  dear  girl  to  venture  out.  But  she 
won't  fail,  bless  her  dear  little  fearless  heart !  She's  a  great 
deal  too  fond  of  *vellow-covered  literature  *  for  that.  1 
wish  she  were  too  fond  of  poor  Dick  Derwent  also  I  But 
that's  too  good  to  hope  for." 

His  whistle  ended  in  a  lugubrious  sigh,  and  his  cheery 
face  clouded  a  little. 

"  Will  she  ever  like  me,  I  wonder,  as  1  like  her?  Will 
it  go  on  like  this  forever — 1  madly  in  love  with  her,  she 
fond  of  *  dear  old  Dick,'  as  she  might  be  fond  of  some  big, 
faithful  Newfoundland  dog?  Will  my  secret  burst  oat 
sooner  or  later,  and  frighten  the  dear  little  innocent  girl  out 
of  her  senses?  I'm  no  match  for  the  adopted  daughter  of 
the  rich  old  miser.  I  suppose  she'll  be  an  heiress  when  he 
dies,  and  Dick  Derwent's  cake  will  be  dough.  She's  in  love 
with  the  Corsair,  Ernest  Mai tra vers,  and  a  dozen  other 
heroes  of  that  ilk,  and  the  sub-editor  of  the  Rockltnge 
*  Weekly  News  '  might  as  well  love  some  *  bright  particular 
star,'  etc.,  as  the  prospective  heir  of  old  Peter  Fisher.  It's 
destiny,  I  suppose,"  concluded  Mr.  Dick  Derwent,  with  a 
second  long-drawn  sigh,  "  but  it's  doosidly  hard." 

He  strode  along  in  gloomy  meditation  for  the  remainder 
of  the  way,  and  gloom  was  an  element  altogether  foreign 
to  Dick  Derwent's  good-humored  face.  But  he  was  in  love 
—hopelessly,  helplessly  in  love — and  surely  the  megrims  is 
the  normal  state  of  hopeless  lovers. 

He  was  in  love  with  Estella  Mallory,  this  youthful  sub- 
editor of  the  Rockledge  *'  News,"  on  whose  boyish  chin 
the  down  was  still  tender,  and  to  him  the  glorious  sun 
shone  on  nothing  half  so  lovely  as  the  pale,  slender  girl  of 
iixteen,  with  the  wonderful  hazel  eyes  and  hair.  He  was  in 
love  with  the  pretty  Estella,  and  he  kept  his  secret,  and  let 
concealment  prey  on  his  damask  cheek;  and  he  Drought  her 
flowers,  and  fruit,  and  cheap  jewelry,  and  unwholesome 
confectionery,  and  more  unwholesome  novels,  by  the  whole- 
sale, and  was  her  escort  to  the  few  places  of  amusement 
she  was  permitted  to  attend,  and  was  her  most  intimate 
friend  on  earth. 

But  she  was  not  in  love  with  him — not  the  least  bit.  He 
was  always  '*  dear  old  Dick,"  and  she  was  very  fond  of  him, 


)• 


BSTELLA  8    HUSBAKD. 


21 


and  he  knew  it,  and  that  very  frank  fondness  plunged 
him  into  the  deepest  abyss  of  despair. 

*'  She  is  waiting  for  a  modern  Count  Lara,"  Mr.  Der« 
wont  thought,  moodily,  '*  a  second  Eugene  Aram,  a  mag* 
uificent  creature  with  black  whiskers  and  a  pale  face,  and 
a  murder  or  two  in  his  mind.  That's  the  worst  of  devour- 
ing novels  by  the  dozen.  Where's  the  girl  of  sixteen  will 
look  twice  at  a  fellow  whose  beard  crops  up  in  wliite  and 
red  stubbles,  and  who  is  obliged  to  wear  patched  panta- 
loons, when  hur  head  is  full  of  Sir  Lancelots  and  Giaours, 
and  grandiose  chaps  of  that  kind?  She'll  elope  with  some 
sixpenny  barber  from  New  York,  the  happy  possessor  of 
dyed  haii  ^ud  mustache,  and  two  melancholy  dark  eyes,  and 
Dick  Derwent  may  cut  his  throat,  for  all  that  she  will 
care." 

The  young  man  came  to  a  halt  as  he  reached  this  gloomy 
climax.  The  place  of  tryst  was  evidently  gained.  A  dismal 
spot — a  dozen  yards  beyond  the  house — on  the  verge  of  the 
windy  cliffs,  screened  from  the  beach  below  by  a  clump  of 
dwarf  cedars. 

He  glanced  over  the  bushes,  but  the  shore  below  was  in 
darkness.  A  regiment  might  be  in  hiding  under  that 
beetling  cliff  and  be  none  the  wiser. 

A  watery  moon  looked  out  from  the  scudding  clouds,  but 
cast  no  light  on  that  eerie  spot,  and  the  man  who  leaned 
motionless  against  the  rock,  directly  below  him,  was  un- 
seen by  Dick  Derwent. 

The  sub-editor  of  the  Rockledge  **  News  "  drew  forth  a 
big  silver  watch,  and  looked  at  the  dial  by  the  pallid  glim- 
mer of  the  moon. 

'*  Half  past  eight,  and  no  sign  of  her  yet.  She'll  keep 
me  waiting  and  cooling  my  shins  here  an  hour  or  so,  as 
usual,  and  may  be  won't  x.ome  at  all.  What  an  unuttera- 
ble ass  I  am,  to  let  a  little,  novel-reading  chit  of  sixteen 
fool  me  like —    Oh,  by  George,  here  she  is!" 

His  whole  face  lighted  up — grew  radiant.  Plain  Dick 
Derwent  was  transformed,  in  a  second,  by  the  magical 
power  of  love.  Where  v/as  common  sense,  his  reasoning 
and  his  railing  nowi*  Yonder  came  his  darling,  and  all 
the  world  was  forgotten ! 

She  came  breathlessly — flying  over  the  marsh,  a  shawl 
over  her  head  and  grasped  under  her  chin — the  wind  flutter- 
ing her  cheap  gray  dress 


ESTKLLA's    HUSBAITD. 


7 


'*  Waiting  Diok?''  she  cried,  panting.     "  I  always  k«0p 

Jou  waiting,  don't  I?    But  I  couldn't  steal  out  any  sooner, 
was  afraid  I  couldn't  come  at  all. " 
**  But  you're  here  now.  Miss  Mallory,  and,  as  Mr.  Toots 
remarks,  the  waiting  is  of  no  conseauence,  thank  youl 
Here  are  the  books,  four  of  'em,  enough  to  keep  ypu  read* 
me  for  one  week.  " 

^*  Thank  you,  Jick!  But,  oh!  where's  the  use?  I  won't 
be  let  read  their.;  I'll  never  be  able  tj  return  them — never 

get  the  chance  to  meet  you  here  a^ain.  Yes,  Dick,"  with 
eepest  solemnity,  **  this  is  the  last  time  you  and  I  can 
ever  meet." 

**  Good  gracious  me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dorwent,  **  what 
on  earth  do  you  mean.  Miss  Mallory?  The  last  time? 
You  never  mean  to  say  that  old  curmudgeon  is  going  to 
lend  you  away  to  school  at  last?" 

**  No,  Dick — ten  times  worse.  I  wish  it  was  only 
lohool.  He's  going,"  in  an  awful  whisper,  **  to — marry— 
me!" 

**  What!"  cried  Dick,  in  horror,  **  marry  you — hit 
niece — that  old  man?    Estel!a — " 

**  Oh,  no,  no!  not  liimself.  He's  going  to  marry  me  to 
another  man.  And  you'd  never  guess  the  man,  Dick— % 
that  dreadful  wretch.  Captain  Koysten  Darrell." 

Dick  Derwent  recoiled  a  pace,  with  a  face  full  of  horror. 

**  EstoUa!" 

**  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  or  what  he  wants  to  marry 
me  for,"  continued  Estella,  rapidly;  '*  but  he  does.  He  was 
with  uncle  all  the  afternoon,  and  as  soon  as  he  went,  uncle 
sent  for  me,  and  told  me  1  must  be  married  in  a  week,  and 
to  the  captain  of  the  '  Eaven.'  Think  of  that,  Dick — in 
a  week!  Of  course  1  said  no — flat — and  uncle  got  into  a 
rage  and  threatened  to  lock  me  up  in  the  garret  with  the 
rats  and  beetles,  and  keep  me  on  bread  and  water  until  I 
consented.  Oh,  Dick!  what  will  become  of  me — what 
shall  I  do?" 

**  See  them  both  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless  pit!" 
burst  out  Mr.  Derwent.  "The  cold-blooded  old  reptile! 
Why,  if  he  searched  the  universe,  he  could  hardly  find  a 
more  desperate  villain  than  that  outlawed  smuggler. 
Dare-devil  Darrell!  Marry  you  to  him!  Good  heavens! 
he  had  better  take  and  pitcn  you,  headforemost,  into  the 
lea  yonder,  and  end  your  misery  at  once.     Marry  Roysten 


ESTRLI.A  8    HUSBAND. 


2S 


Darrein    Not  if  I  know  mysolf,  Essie;  and  1  ratnor  think 
I  do." 

**  Dear  old  Dick!  1  knew  you  would  help  me.  What 
would  ever  becomo  of  me  only  for  you?  But  what  can  1 
do?  To-morrow  lie  comes  for  his  answer,  and  if  the  an- 
swer is  *  no,'  up  in  the  attic  Til  \m  locked  as  sure  as  we 
stand  here." 

'*  Then  don't  give  them  the  chance,"  said  impotuou« 
Dick;  "run  away  to-night.  Does  the  hoary  old  repro- 
bate think  he  has  gone  back  to  the  dark  ages,  to  lock 
young  and  lovely  females  in  the  *  deepest  dungeon  beneath 
the  castle  moat,*  upon  bread  and  water?  Give  them  the 
slip,  Essie — make  youreelf  '  thin  air '  at  once." 

'  And  go  where?"  asked  the  young  lady,  calmly. 
'*  Look  here,  Dick,  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  it's  of 
no  use.  Uncle  is  tke  richest  man  and  the  most  powerful 
man  in  Rockledge.  Half  of  the  town  are  his  tenants — 
all  are  afraid  of  him — none  of  them  will  willingly  incur  his 
displeasure.  If  1  leave  here,  where  will  1  go?  who  will  re- 
ceive me?  You  have  no  homo  to  take  me  to,  and  you  are 
the  only  friend  1  have  got.  I  can't  be  a  burden  upon 
anybody,  and  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  any  way  on 
earth  to  earn  my  own  living.     What  am  I  going  to  do?" 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  earnestly  up  in  his 
face. 

He  could  see  the  solemn  darkness  of  those  rare  hazel  eyes 
in  the  fitful  moonlight.  How  pretty  she  was!  how  pretty  1 
how  pretty!  and  how  friendless  and  helpless! 

His  heart  leaped  up  with  a  great  bound;  his  face  turned 
dark  red.    The  young  fellow  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

**  There  is  one  way,  Essie,"  he  said,  hoarsely — "  only 
one  that  I  can  see,  and  I — I  am  afraid  to  name  it. " 

"  Afraid!"  The  dark  eyes  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 
**  Afraid,  Dick!    What  can  it  be?" 

**  You  must  marry  some  one  else,  and  at  once!  You  are 
friendless  and  helpless,  and  in  their  power.  1  have  no 
home  to  take  you  to,  as  you  say;  and,  oh,  Essie!  I  would 
give  my  heart's  blood  for  you!  But  if,  when  the  time 
comes  which  they  appoint  for  your  marriage  with  Roysten 
Darrell,  you  are  the  wife  of  some  other  man,  then  you  can 
safely  defy  them  both.  A  husband's  authority  is  the 
strongest  in  the  world." 

He  spoke  rapidly^  excitedly,  almost  incoherently,  th« 


i 


4 


U 


S4 


BBTella's  husband. 


poriirp'irfttion  Branding  like  beads  on  his  fliiBhod  faoe.  The 
great  brown  eyes  gazed  at  him  in  over-increasing  wonder. 

**  But  who  am  I  to  marry^,  Dick?  It  is  jumping  out  ol 
the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,  isn't  it?  Who  am  1  to  marry?*' 

**  Marry  me!** 

The  murder  was  out.  Estci.  ,  gave  a  little  gn^p,  then 
stood  staring.  But  with  that  desperate  header  oume  bacl-' 
Dick's  courage,  and  into  the  subject  he  plunged  headfore- 
most. 

**  Marry  me,  Estella!  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul!  I  have  loved  you,  1  think,  ever  since  1  taw  you  first. 
I  would  die  for  your  sake!  I  would  give  my  life  to  make 
you  happy!  I  never  dared  speak  before.  I  would  not  dare 
speak  now,  but  for  what  you  huvc^  told  mo.  Oh,  Essie!  You 
hke  me  a  little,  don't  you?  Come  with  me,  and  be  my 
wife!" 

**  But,  Dick —  Oh,  good  gracious!  who'd  have  thought 
it?    1 — I  never  was  so — " 

But  here  Dick  broke  in,  like  an  impetuous  torrent 

**  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Estella.  You,  so  beautiful, 
«nd  so  much  above  me!  But  I  love  you  so  dearly,  and  I 
will  devote  my  whol.  life  to  making  you  happy.  Don't 
say  no,  Esteliu!  Think  of  your  danger — think  how  I  wor- 
ship you!  Oh,  surely  it  is  better  to  marry  me  than  to  marry 
Roysten  Darrell!" 

'*  A  great  deal  better,"  responded  Miss  Mallory,  decis- 
ively. *'  Oh,  dear,  dear!  what  an  astonisher  this  is! 
The  idea  of  your  being  in  love  with  me  all  this  time,  and  I 
never  dreaming  of  it!  Why,  Dick,"  and  here  Miss  Mal- 
lory  set  up  a  silvery  laugh,  **  1  never  thought  it  was  in  you 
to  be  in  love  at  all.  I  thought  you  were  wrapped  up  in 
that  horrid  printing  office  and  that  stupid  Rockledge 
'News.'" 

"  But  now  you  know,  and  you —  Oh,  Essie,  you  like 
me  a  little,  don't  you?"  cried  Dick,  piteously. 

**  I  like  you  a  great  deal,"  answered  Estella,  with  de- 
licious candor.  **  Better  than  anybody  in  the  world.  But 
I'm  not  a  bit  in  love  with  you,  you  know,  Dick." 

**  And  you'll  marry  me?  Essie — Essie  darling,  say 
yes!" 

"  Yes  /"  said  Estella,  promptly.  "  What  fun  it  will  be 
to  outwit  those  two  schemers!    I'd  marry  you  \t  it  was 


bbtella's  husband. 


2C 


onlj  for  that.    Bat,  oh,  dear!  the  idea  of  you  and  mu  being 
marriud!     Diok  IKMWuiit,  it's /oo  ridiuulous.'* 

*'  IJou'ltulk  liko  that,  Essio.''  Dick  said,  his  honust  fuco 
all  a^lovv  with  rupture.  *'  I'm  tho  happiest  fellow  on 
earth.  1  can't  promise  you  a  tlno  hotiso,  and  rich  dresses, 
and  servants,  just  yet,  but  Til  wcM-k  for  you  like  a  galley- 
slave,  and  you — you  won't  mind  a  litLlo  poverty  at  first, 
will  you,  darling?" 

**Afind!"  said  Eatella.  **  I  should  think  I  was  pretty 
well  used  to  it.  Look  at  that  grim  old  prison.  There  isn  t 
a  cottage  in  Rockledgo  half  so  meanly  furnished.  Look  at 
my  dress!  Two  of  these  cheap  gray  things  is  all  I  gel 
from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  Look  ut  our  table — 
porridge  and  potatoes,  and  salt  fish,  and  brown  bread,  and 
weak  tea.  Poverty!  I've  had  sixteen  years  of  that,  Dick, 
and  I  should  think,  as  I  said  before,  1  was  pretty  well 
used  to  it. " 

**  My  own  dear  Essie!  It  will  go  hard  with  me  or  we 
will  do  better  than  that.  I  will  go  in  rags,  so  that  you 
may  be  dressed.  1  will  starve,  so  that  you  may  have 
dainties.  I  will  labor  night  and  day,  that  those  dear  hands 
may  never  know  toil.  Oh,  my  dearest!  how  happy,  how 
happy  you  have  made  me!" 

Gushing  two-aud-twenty!  delirious  first  lovel 

Miss  Mtiiiory  smiled  complacently.  This  was  as  it  should 
be — this  was  how  she  would  be  wooed — this  was  living  a 
chapter  out  of  one  of  her  pet  romances. 

True,  the  hero  had  a  snub  nose,  and  perennial  smudges 
Ox  printers'  ink  upon  it,  but  still,  for  the  time  being,  he 
was  a  hero,  and  Edgar  Eavenswood  could  hardly  do  better. 

**  That's  all  very  nice  Dick,  and  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  1  am  sure.     But  how  is  it  going  to  be  managed? 
How  are  we  going  to  be  married?" 
^     **  In  the  only  way — elope." 

**  Yes,"  said  Estella,  calmly;  **  but  when?  and  how?  Re- 
member, we  have  only  a  week. " 

**  And  a  week  is  an  abundance  of  time!  Oh,  my  dar- 
ling, I  am  ready  to  go  wild  with  delight  when  1  think  you 
will  be  all  my  own  in  one  short  week!  Let  me  see— this  is 
Thursday  night.  Essie,  you  must  pretend  to  consent,  and 
fix  this  nigh^  week  for  the  ceremony." 

**  But,  Dick,  I  hate  to  tell  lies!    It  is  too  mean." 

'*  Unfortunately,  white  lies  are  indispensable  on  these 


■;♦ 


r 

i 


I' 


26 


bstella's  husband. 


occasions.  We  must  outwit  these  schemers.  Meantime,  i 
will  make  arrangements  for  our  immediate  union.  I  have 
a  cousin,  newly  ordained,  over  at  Leaport,  who  will  be  glad 
of  a  chance  to  oblige  me,  and  who  is  not  in  the  least  in 
dread  of  the  great  Mr.  Fisher.  He  will  marry  us,  Essie, 
and  next  Tuesday  shall  be  the  night.*' 

'*  And  then,  Dicii?'' 

**  Then  we  will  return  to  Rockledge,  able  to  snap  our 
fingera  in  the  faces  of  Peter  Fisher  and  Roysteu  Darrell. 
If  tljey  dare  say  one  word,  I'll  show  them  both  up  in  next 
week's  *  News,*  and  make  the  state  too  hot  to  hold  them. 
We  \7ill  board  for  awhile  with  Mrs.  Daly,  where  I  stop  now, 
until  I  build  a  pretty  little  nest  for  my  pretty  little  bird. 
You  understand  all  this,  Essie,  and  will  obey? 

*'  I  will  do  anything  to  escape  Roysten  Darrell,"  replied 
the  girl,  with  a  shudder — **  anything  in  the  wide  world, 
Dick.     Where  shall  I  meet  you  on  Tuesday  night?" 

"  Here — 1  will  have  a  conveyance  waiting  on  the  road  to 
take  us  to  Leaport.  My  dearest  girl,  you  will  never  repent 
your  trust  in  me." 

**  Dear  old  Dick,  I  know  it.  And  now  1  must  go. 
Judi<^^h  locks  up  after  nine,  and  it  won't  do  for  me  to  be 
missed.  On  Tuesday  night,  then,  I  will  meet  you  here 
again.     Until  then,  good-bye!" 

'*  Good-bye,  darling  Essie!"  He  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  rapturously.  **'  I  think  I  am  the  happiest  fellow 
on  earth.  If  anything  of  importance  occurs  oetween  this 
and  Tuesday,  1  will  write.  DonH  you  think  you  could 
meot  me  again  Sunday  evening?" 

"  I  don't  know  I  will  if  I  can.  Good-bye,  and  good- 
night!" 

She  darted  away  with  the  last  words,  and  was  lost  in  the 
darkness  before  Richard  Derwent  could  quite  realize  she 
kad  gone. 

He  turned  slowly  home«vard,  with  a  glow  at  his  heart 
like  a  halo  around  a  full  moon,  all  unconscious  ol  the 
silent  listener  under  the  cliff  who  had  overheard  every  word. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

::OYSTEN   DARRELL  COUNTERPLOTS. 

As  Dick  Derwent's  footsteps  died  away,  the  eavesdropper 
emerged  from  the  shadow  into  the  fitful  moonlight,  and  the 


■STELLA'S   aCSBAND. 


27 


lofty  statare  and  bold,  handsome  face  of  Captain  Royrten 

Darrell  was  revealed. 

"  So!'*  he  thought,  with  a  long  whistle,  **  the  game 
grows  interesting — the  plot  thickens!  A  rival  on  the  field, 
eh?  Mr.  Dick  Derwent,  sub-editor  of  the  *  Rockledge 
News/  thinks  to  outwit  Dare-devil  Darrell!  How  lucky  1 
stayed  here,  waiting  for  Briggs^  and  how  doubly  lucky  that 
Briggs  hasn't  come!  My  pretty  little  Estella,  we'll  see 
whether  Roysten  Darrell  or  Dick  Derwent  will  win  the 
game!" 

He  strode  over  the  beach,  whistling  '*  My  Love  is  but  a 
Lassie  Yet,"  and  lost  in  thought. 

"  There  will  be  the  devil  to  pay  with  Carlotta,"  he  mused, 
his  brow  knitijag;  '*  she's  as  stubborn  as  a  mule,  and  as 
jealous  as — as  a  jealous  woman — but  she  must  yield!  1 
don't  care  a  sou  for  the  girl,  and  if  I  can  get  her  to  believe 
that,  and  dazzle  her  with  the  prospective  fortune,  she  may 
hear  to  reason.  But  managing  Estella  will  be  a  trifle  to 
managing  her.  The  very  old  demon  is  in  her,  1  believe, 
when  her  spirit  is  up. " 

He  walked  along  rapidly — a  long,  lonely  walk.  The 
watery  glimmer  of  the  pale  moon  lighted  up  the  long- 
deserted  beach,  the  waste  of  moaning  sea,  the  beetling  cliffs 
overhead.  He  walked  along  for  upward  of  a  mile  over  the 
shingly  shore,  passing  the  spot  where  the  "  Baven  "  lay 
rising  and  falling  lazily  on  the  long  groundswell. 

No  human  habitation  was  in  sight,  no  living  thing  met 
his  view — the  sobbing  night  wind,  the  moaning  sea,  the 
pallid  moonlight,  had  the  ghastly  stretch  of  shore  all  to 
themselves. 

But  Roysten  Darrell  hastened  along,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  knows  where  he  is  going.  Another  half  mile  is 
passed,  and  then  the  first  sign  of  human  habitation  came 
m  view.  And  yet,  was  it  a  habitation?  A  low,  ruinous 
black  building,  dark  and  deserted,  known  as  the  "  Den  " 
to  the  fishermen  along  the  coast,  and  popularly  supposed 
to  be  haunted — an  unspeakably  ghastly  place  to  be  inhab 
ited. 

No  ray  of  light  came  from  its  boarded  windows,  no  sound 
from  its  gloomy  walls,  but  at  the  door  of  this  dreary  ruin 
the  captain  of  the  "  Raven  "  stopped,  and  applying  his  lips 
to  the  key-hole,  whistled  shrilly  three  times. 

The  signal  was  almost  immediately  answered.    Bolts  shot 


r 


V 

I' 

'I 


'i 


11  estella's  husband. 

back,  chains  rattled,  the  door  opened  cautiously,  aizd  a 
bearded  face  looked  out  into  the  night. 

**  You,  cap'n?"  said  a  bass  voice. 

**  I,  Marlow.  Let  me  in.  Is  Monks  here,  and  the 
rest?" 

**  Come  half  an  hour  ago,  and  enjoying  theirselves. 
Don't  you  hear  'em?  They'll  bring  the  vultures  down  on 
the  *  Den '  with  their  infernal  row." 

The  captain  strode  in;  the  door  was  again  secured.  He 
stood  in  a  long  passage-way  dimly  lighted  by  an  oil-lamp, 
and  the  noise  of  many  voices  singing  in  the  distance  reached 
him  plainly. 


u 


There's  danger  on  yon  heaving  sea, 

There's  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark  the  music,  marinersl 

The  wind  is  piping  loud. 
The  wind  is  pipng  loud,  my  boys; 

The  lightning  flashes  free; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we!" 

**And  merry  men  are  we!"  yelled  a  dozen  nproarious 
voices.  **  And  here's  the  captain,  the  merriest  of  the  lot! 
A  long  life  and  a  merry  one  to  the  captain  of  the 
*  Raven!' " 

The  toast  was  drunk  with  a  perfect  screech  of  enthusi- 
asm. Captain  Darrell  stood  in  the  door- way,  calmly  re- 
garding the  scene.  A  large,  vault-like  apartment  filled 
with  casks  and  bales—too  plainly  contraband — rude  benches 
for  seats,  a  ruder  table  in  the  center,  and  an  oil-lamp 
swinging  above,  dully  lighting  all. 

Around  the  table,  noisily  drinking  and  playing  cards, 
over  a  dozen  men  were  seated — stalwart,  ferocious  fellows, 
all  armed  to  the  teeth,  rolling  out  oaths  and  tobacco  juice 
in  perpetual  volleys. 

Too  much  noise,  my  lads — too  much  noise!"  said  Roy- 
sten  Darrell.  "  You'll  fetch  the  revenue  sharks  down  upon 
you  before  you  know  it.     Monks,  a  word  with  you." 

One  of  the  men  arose — a  black-bearded,  piratical-looking 
desperado — and  followed  his  tall  commander  into  a  second 
passage  darker  than  the  first. 

*'  Anything  new,  cap'n?  Is  Briggs  coming  for  his  vent- 
ure to-night? 

"  I  missed  Briggs.     Look  here.  Monks,  you  go  to  Rock- 


istella's  husbakd. 


3» 


ledge  sometimes;  do  you  know  a  chap  there  called  Dick 
Derwent — printer  by  trade?'' 

**  A  tall,  slim  youth — part  editor  of  the  *  News?'  As 
well  as  I  know  myself,  cap'n." 

"  Good!  lie  is  in  my  way,  Monks — you  understand?  1 
have  a  little  project  on  foot  with  which  he  may  interfere.'* 

**  What!  that  milksop?    Whew!"  whistled  Monks. 

**  Milksops  make  mischief  sometimes.  Keep  your  ey© 
on  him,  Monks.  On  Monday  night  next  he  must  be  se- 
cured without  fail,  and  without  noise.     You  hear?" 

'*  All  right!  I'm  good  ior  a  dozen  Dick  Derwents. 
Where  are  we  to  fetch  him?  To  the  Den,  or  on  board  the 
*  Raven?'  " 

**  On  board  the  *  Raven.'  See  that  it's  all  done  on  the 
quiet.  Monks — 1  don't  want  a  stir  made.  That  is  all — you 
oan  go  back  to  your  game." 

He  turned  away,  and  walked  down  the  dark  passage. 
Before  he  reached  the  end,  a  door  opened,  a  stream  of  light 
poured  forth,  and  there  was  a  woman's  glad  cry. 

**  I  knew  your  step,  Roysten.  Who  would  have  looked 
for  you  so  soon?    Come  in — supper  is  ready  and  waiting." 

Two  warm  arms  went  round  his  neck;  two  impetuous 
lips  met  his;  two  strong  little  hands  drew  him  in  and  shut 
the  door. 

**  And  I  am  as  hungry  as  u  bear,  Carlotta;  so  let  us  have 
it  as  soon  as  may  be,  my  girl. " 

It  was  a  smaller  room  than  the  first — and  surprisingly 
cosy  and  comfortable  for  such  a  place.  A  carpet  covered 
the  floor,  the  chairs  were  cushioned,  a  plump,  white  bed 
stood  In  a  corner,  there  were  pictures  on  the  wall,  books 
on  the  shelves,  a  fire  in  a  little  cook-stove,  and  a  mirror 
over  the  rude  mantel.  A  large  lamp  lighted  it  brightly, 
glittering  on  a  well  spread  supper-table  and  on  the  small, 
slender  figure  of  the  woman  who  stood  beside  it. 

A  very  small  and  slender  figure — a  little  dark  creature 
— with  great  black  eyes,  jet-black  hair,  and  a  dark,  olive 
skin.  A  darkly  beautiful  creature,  with  a  passionate, 
southern  face,  dressed  in  a  rich  robe  of  crimson  silk,  and 
with  jewels  flashing  on  her  thin,  dark  hands. 

Roysten  Darrell  flung  off  his  loose  great-coat,  and  seated 
himself  at  the  table.  The  little  Creole  beauty  poured  out 
a  cup  of  fragrant  chocolate,  and  pushed  all  the  dainties  on 
ihe  board  before  him. 


I 

( 


I 


M 


EfflELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


"  1  have  news  for  you  to-night,  Carlotta,"  ht  said,  plung- 
ing at  once,  with  a  reckless  rapidity  that  was  characteristic 
of  the  man,  into  his  unpleasant  revelations.  "  I  am  going 
to  be  married." 

The  great  black  eyes  dilated — the  thin,  red  lips  sprung 
apart. 

"  Whatf 

**  I  am  going  to  be  married,  Carlotta — married  to  a  great 
heiress,  my  girl.  A  little,  wishy-washy  school-girl,  fresh 
from  the  nursery,  whom  I  have  never  seen  six  times  in  my 
life.     What  do  you  think  of  that?'' 

*'  1  don't  understand,"  the  woman  Carlotta  said,  her 
dark  face  paling  strangely.  **  You  are  joking  with  Car- 
lotta.    1  am  your  wife." 

"  So  you  are,  my  beauty,  and  there  is  a  law  prohibiting 
men,  in  this  narrow-minded  country,  from  having  more 
wives  than  one.  But  the  law  and  lloysten  Darrell  have 
been  at  loggerheads  this  many  a  day,  and  it's  rather  late  to 
respect  its  majesty  now.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  be  married, 
and  in  a  week,  and  to  an  heiress,  and  we'll  take  the  little 
bride  for  her  honey-moon  trip  on  board  the  *  Eaveu;'  and 
when  th«  *  Raven  '  weighs  anchor  out  in  the  cove  yonder 
again,  I  will  be  a  widower,  and  the  sole  possessor  of  the 
late  Mrs.  Darrell 's  fortune." 

And  then,  while  he  eat  and  drank  at  his  leisure,  Roysten 
Darrell  retold  the  plot  laid  by  Peter  Fisher  for  securing  th© 
wealth  of  his  ward,  and  retold  that  second  plot  he  had  over- 
heard beneath  the  cliff. 

**  I'll  secure  the  heiress,  and  foil  Mr  Dick  Derwent," 
the  captain  of  the  '*  Raven  "  concludeu,  finishing  his  meal. 
**  Come,  Carlotta,  sit  here  on  my  knee,  and  listen  to  rea- 
son. There  is  no  need  for  you  to  wear  that  white,  scared 
face;  1  wouldn't  give  my  little  gypsy  wife  for  a  dozen  heir- 
esses. But  to  win  half  a  million  of  money  at  one  swoop, 
that  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  This  pale,  sickly  girl  of  six- 
teen will  never  come  back  alive,  and  you  and  1,  my  darling 
Carlotta,  will  share  her  wealth,  and  live  in  clover  for  the 
rest  of  our  lives." 

**  Will  you  murder  her,  Roysten?"  the  woman  said,  with 
dilated  eyes. 

**  Murder  her?  No—I  wouldn't  see  her  worst  eneniv  do 
that.  Bu^  seasickness,  and  horror  of  me,  and  the  loss  of 
her  lover,  and  our  wild  life,  will  murder  her.     Depend 


l^; 


EITELLA'S    HUSBAKD. 


31 


upon  it,  the  little  bride  will  never  come  back  aJive,  or  if 
■he  does,  only  to  get  a  divorce,  and  free  herself  from  the 
husband  she  hates  with  every  penay  of  her  fortune.  Come, 
Carlotta,  say  you  consent,  and  let  ua  consider  the  matter 
settled. " 

The  woman  clasped  her  arms  passionately  round  iiis 
neck,  and  laid  her  dark  face  on  his  bosom  with  a  dry, 
choking  sob. 

**  Could  I  refuse  you  anything  in  the  world,  my  love, 
my  husband — anything  in  the  wide  world?  Has  poor  Car- 
lotta any  will  but  yours?  But,  oh,  Roysten!  it  would  be 
easier  to  die  than  see  you  even  for  an  hour  wedded  to  an- 
other!" 


r- 


Estella  Mailory  reached  the  house  just  in  time  to  escape 
being  locked  out.  Old  Judith  turi^ed  upon  her  with  no 
very  pleasant  face. 

**  And  where  have  you  been,  pray,  this  hour  »l  the 
night?  I  thought  you  were  safely  up  in  yonr  room.  What 
will  Mr.  Fisher  say  to  this  gaddiug?" 

*'  1  wasn't  gadding,  and  Mr.  Fisher  will  say  nothing. 
Grandmother  Grumpy,  for  you  won't  tell  him.  Good- 
night, Judith;  if  you  took  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air  yourself 
every  evening,  you  would  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  People 
grow  yellow  and  cross  from  moping  forever  in-doors." 

She  ran  off  to  her  room,  singing  a  snatch  of  a  song,  her 
books  hidden  beneath  her  shawl.  Like  all  the  rooms  in 
the  house,  Estella's  chamber  was  long  and  low,  and  dark 
and  moldering;  but  the  girl  had  brightened  it  a  little  with 
muslin  curtains,  and  a  gay  patchwork  quilt  to  her  bed,  and 
flimsy  little  fixings  of  crochet-work,  and  books  and  cheap 

Erints,  mostly  gifts  from  Dick.  _  She  sat  up  reading  until 
er  caudle  sputtered  and  died  out;  and  then  she  went  to 
bed  to  dream  how  cleverly  she  was  going  to  outplot  the 
plotters. 

Roysten  Darrell  came  next  day,  and  was  closeted  for 
over  an  hour  with  Mr.  Fisher.  Then  Estella  was  sum- 
moned, and  went  down-stairs  in  soma  trepidation  to  face 
the  stalwart  wooer  she  dreaded. 

"  And  how  is  my  little  Estella?'*  cried  the  captain  of 
the  **  Raven,"  las  brilliant  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  mis- 
ehievous  light     **  Grown  out  of  all  knowledge,  and  prat- 


i 


I. 


82 


estella's  husband. 


)!  is! 


tier  than  a  picture.  Come  here,  my  dear,  and  give  me  a 
Ities." 

But  Miss  Mallory  drew  herself  up,  her  great  dark  eyes 
flashing,  and  turned  her  back  upon  him  in  haughty  disdain. 

**  You  sent  for  me,  Mr.  Fisher,"  she  said,  coldly. 

**  Yes,  my  dear — for  your  answer,  you  know,''  replied 
old  Peter  Fisher,  his  wicked  old  face  distorted  into  an  evil 
smile.  *'  Captain  Darrell  wishes  to  be  married  next  Thurs- 
day night — the  *  Raven  '  sails  on  Saturday.     What  do  you 


say 


V* 


''  No!''  said  Estella,  promptly. 

*'  All  right!"  exclaimed  Roysten  Darrell.  "  Then  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  use  a  little  gentle  force.  You'll  see  that 
all  the  wedding-gear  is  prepared,  Mr.  Fisher,  and  when 
Thursday  night  comes,  I  dare  say  Miss  Mallory  will  change 
her  mind.  Until  then  it  is  useless  to  trouble  her;  but  I 
think  she  had  better  remain  in  the  house  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. Brides-elect  never  show,  I  believe,  for  a  week  be- 
forehand. That  will  do,  my  dear.  If  you  won't  consent, 
and  if  you  won't  give  me  that  kiss,  perhaps  you  will  go 
back  to  your  room. " 

**  Not  at  your  bidding,"  flashed  Estella,  defiantly. 
**  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  to  me,  uncle?" 

"  No!  Be  off;  and  be  thankful  1  don't  rope's-end  you 
for  your  impertinence,  miss!" 

Estella  obeyed,  flushed  and  angry,  and  from  her  win- 
dow, soon  after,  saw  Captain  Darrell  striding  over  the 
marsh.     And  he  came  no  more. 

Saturday  and  Sunday  passed,  and  she  was  left  in  peace, 
but,  to  her  dismay,  a  prisoner.  Old  Judith  had  orders  not 
to  allow  her  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  old  Judith  was  a 
very  dragon  of  fidelity  to  her  grim  master. 

Monday  came,  and  with  it  a  ray  of  hope  to  Estella.  The 
butcher's  boy,  from  Rockledge,  bringing  the  meat  for  din- 
ner, brought  also  a  tiny  note  for  Miss  Mallory. 

Estella  chanced  to  be  alone  in  the  kitchen  when  he  came, 
Judith  being  upstairs  over  her  chamber-work.  The  note 
was  in  Dick's  hand.  With  aery  of  delight  she  tore  it  open 
and  read: 

'*  On  Tuesday  night,  at  half  past  nine,  meet  me  at  the 
old  place.     All  is  ready.     Don't  fail. " 


ESTELLA*S    HUSBAl^D. 


86 


That  was  ill;  bufc  it  was  Dick's  writing,  and  her  heart 
^%ve  a  great  bound. 

**  I'll  meet  hira,  if  I  have  to  jump  out  of  the  window!" 
she  thought.  "  Marry  Roysten  Darrell,  indeed!  Not  if  1 
were  to  be  hung,  drawn  and  quartered  for  refusing." 

Tuesday  came — a  wet,  windy  day.  All  the  morning 
Estella  remained  shut  up  in  her  room;  all  the  afternoon 
she  wandered  about  the  house,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety. 
Night  closed  down  early — wetter  ana  windier  than  the  day. 

Fortune  seemed  to  favor  her.  Judith  was  laid  up  with 
rheumatism,  and  obliged  to  go  to  bed  at  dark. 

Groanmg  with  pain,  she  ordered  Estelii*  up  to  her  room, 
locked  the  house  door,  and  hobbled  ofE  to  her  own. 

Nine  o'clock,  and  all  was  still.  Twenty  minutes  past^ 
and  nothing  to  be  heard  but  the  tumult  of  wind  and  rain. 

Wrapped  in  her  shawl,  and  wearing  a  hat  and  thick  veil, 
Estella  stole  down-stairs,  unfastened  the  house  door  with 
trembling  fingers,  and  stood  out  in  the  wet  darkness— free! 

She  did  not  pause  a  second.  Heedless  of  wind,  and  rain, 
and  pitchy  darkness,  she  fled  to  the  place  of  tryst. 

Was  Dick  there?  Yes;  a  man  stood  dimly  outlined 
against  the  dark  background,  waiting. 

**  Estella,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  **  is  it  you?" 

**  It  is  I,  Dick.     Quick!  I  may  be  missed." 

He  took  her  hand  and  hurried  her  on.  A  buggy  stood 
waiting  on  the  road.  He  lifted  her  in,  sprung  to  the  seat 
beside  her,  and  drove  off  like  the  wind. 

There  v^as  no  time  to  talk — they  flew  along  too  quickly 
—and  the  uproar  of  the  storm  would  have  drowned  their 
voices. 

Dick's  cap  was  pulled  over  his  nose,  and  his  coat-collar 
turned  up,  so  that  his  face  was  completely  hidden. 

For  nearly  an  hour  they  rattled  alor^;  then  he  pulled 
up  suddenly — before  a  light  glimmering  m  the  dark. 

**  This  is  the  place,"  he  said,  hr.rriedly.  **  The  clergy- 
man is  waiting.     Quick!" 

He  drew  her  along — into  a  house — into  a  room.  A 
smoky  lamp  only  made  the  darkness  visible,  and  through 
her  veil  the  frightened  girl  saw,  dimly,  a  man  dressed  as  a 
clergyman,  and  two  others,  all  talking  in  a  group. 

**  There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  said  Estella's  companion. 
'*  We  may  be  pursued.  Marry  us  at  once,  and  lei  us  be 
off." 

2 


M 
Pi 


*■'-'■  if- 


].« 


.  I 


H 


estella's  husband. 


He  never  removed  his  cap;  she  did  not  put  up  her  veil 
She  was  trembling  from  head  to  ».  The  wild  night* 
journey — this  gloomy  room — these  strange  men!  She  wai 
frightened,  and  quivering  all  over. 

The  minister  opened  hifi  book;  the  ceremony  began. 

But  Estella's  head  was  whirling — all  was  confusion  and 
indistinct.  She  answered,  **  I  will  I"  vagufily.  She  saw 
a  ring  slipped  on  her  finger,  as  we  see  things  in  a  dream. 
Then  all  was  over,  and  she  was  out  in  the  wet  night  once 
more,  flying  along  the  road,  and  this  was  her  husband  by 
her  side! 

They  sped  along.  Faint  and  frightened,  she  cowered  in 
a  corner,  while  the  man  beside  her  never  uttered  a  word. 
On  and  on  they  went,  stopping  with  a  jerk  at  last — where, 
Estella  did  not  know. 

**  Here  we  are!"  said  the  silent  bridegroom.  **  Home 
at  last!" 

He  lifted  her  out — bore  her  along  like  a  whirlwind  to- 
ward a  house — opened  the  door  and  ushered  her  into  a  dark 
hall. 

"  This  way,"  he  said.  **  They  have  forgotten  to  light 
up.     Here  are  the  stairs — look  out!" 

He  half  led,  half  carried  her  up  the  stairs,  opened  a 
door  at  the  top,  and  disclosed  a  lighted  room. 

**  At  home!"  he  cried.  **  Throw  up  your  veil,  my 
dear  little  wife,  and  give  me  that  kiss  now  /" 

That  voice!  She  did  fling  back  her  veil,  in  wild  affright. 
Oh,  where  was  she?  This  familiar  room — the  dreary  par- 
lor of  Fisher's  Folly;  those  well-known  faces — old  Peter 
Fisher  and  Judith — grinning  at  her  across  the  table. 

"You  thought  to  outwit  us,"  chuckled  the  old  man,, 
grimly.  **  We  have  turned  the  tables  and  outwitted  yoUr 
My  dear  Mrs.  Roysten  Darrell,  let  me  be  the  first  to  offer 
my  congratulations!" 

She  wheeled  round,  with  a  smothered  cry,  and  looked  at 
the  man  beside  her.  The  cap  was  flung  off,  the  coat-collar 
turned  down. 

Tall  and  handsome,  with  the  face  of  a  smiling  demon, 
there  stood  the  man  she  had  married — Koysten  Darrein 


li 


bbtella's  husband. 


at 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN    THE    ATTIC. 

It  was  «  scene  worthy  a  melodrama. 

For  an  instant  dead  silence  reigned.  The  triumphani 
plotters  stood  looking  at  their  victim,  and  she — poor, 
snared  bird — stood  paralyzed,  her  great  brown  eyes,  wide 
and  wild,  fixed  in  unutterable  horror  upon  the  man  she  had 
married. 

He  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  With  a  loud 
laugh,  he  strode  toward  her,  his  arms  extended. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  how  the  Ifttle  one  stares!  Am  I  the 
Gorgon's  head,  my  dear,  and  have  I  turned  you  to  stone? 
Gome,  my  little  brown-eyed  bride,  it  is  time  your  blissful 
bridegroom  had  a  kiss!'' 

Another  stride  toward  her — then  Estella  awoke.  With 
a  wild,  wild  cry,  that  rang  through  the  house,  she  flung  up 
both  arms  and  fled  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room. 

**  Keep  off!"  she  shrieked,  "  you  pirate!  you  murderer! 
you  second  Cain!    If  you  touch  me,  I  shall  die!" 

Roysten  Darrell  laughed  again — his  deep,  melodious, 
bass  laugh. 

**  Hard  names,  my  dear,  to  begin  the  honey-moon  with. 
Gome,  you  must  forgive  our  little  trick — all's  fair  in  love, 
you  know.  You  would  have  tricked  me,  remember,  if  you 
could — you  and  that  little  whipper-snapper  of  a  printer. 
X  don't  bear  any  malice,  but  1  really  couldn't  stand  by  and 
«ee  you  throw  yourself  away  on  a  contemptible  little  jack- 
anapes like  that.  Come,  come,  Estella — let  by-gones  be 
by-gones!  You're  my  wife  now,  as  fast  as  church  and  state 
can  make  you,  and  the  only  thing  you  can  do  is  to  submit 
to  the  inevitable  and  consent  to  make  me  the  happiest  of 
men.  Come,  my  dear — come!  Get  out  of  that  comer  and 
pay  you  forgive  me!" 

Again  he  came  toward  her,  and  again  that  frenzied 
shriek  rang  through  the  house. 

*  *  Don't  come  near  me !  don't  touch  me !  If  you  lay  your 
finger  upon  me,  I  shall  go  mad!  Eoysten  Darrell,  I  will 
n«yer  forgive  you  to  my  dying  day!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,  my  dear!  Don't  be  unchristian. 
Ton  can't  blame  me  for  loving  you  to  distraotion,  such  « 


.  ( 


mi 

'it" ' 


i! 


I ) 


80 


BSTELLA'S    HUciliAND. 


pretty  little  girl  as  you  are;  you  can't  blame  me  for  OTer* 
nearing  your  little  conspiracy  with  Mr.  liichard  Derwent; 
and  least  of  all  can  you  blame  me  for  proving  myself  the 
more  skillful  plotter  of  the  two.  Think  better  of  it,  my 
dear  little  wife;  don't  stand  glaring  upon  me  there,  as 
though  I  were  an  African  gorilla,  out  hear  to  reason. 
We're  married;  I'm  your  husband,  and  it's  a  wife's  solemn 
duty  to  love,  honor  and  obey  her  husband,  if  I  know  any- 
thing of  my  catechism  and  the  marriage  service.  Come, 
Mra  Darrell — come!  You  must  yield,  sooner  or  later- 
then  why  not  at  once?" 

For  the  third  time  he  approached,  and  for  the  third 
time  the  girl's  frenzied  soreoms  echoed  through  the  house. 
Even  Roysten  Darrell  drew  back,  appalled. 

"  The  devil's  in  it!"  he  muttered.  "  Who  would  think 
she  would  raise  such  a  row?    1  believe  in  my  soul  she  will 

fo  mad  if  I  touch  her.  Fisher,  she  splits  my  ears — make 
er  stop  that  infernal  yelling. " 

Old  Peter  Fisher,  his  little  eyes  glaring  with  wrath,  strode 
forward  and  seized  her  arm  in  a  vicious  grip. 

*'  You  screaming  hyena,  if  you  don't  stop  that  noise  this 
instant,  I'll  choke  you!  Stop  it,  I  say — stop  it!  Do  you 
hear?  Do  you  want  to  drive  us  deaf,  you  confounded, 
cross-grained  little  wild-oat?" 

**  Save  me  from  that  man!"  cried  Estella,  almost  beside 
herself — **  save  me  from  him,  and  I  will  do  what  you  say? 
Oh,  Uncle  Fisher,  save  me — save  me!  If  you  let  him  come 
near  me,  1  shall  die!" 

**  Die,  then!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Fisher,  giving  her  a  vin- 
dictive shake — "  the  sooner  the  bet^.er!  Of  all  the  plagues 
of  Egypt — of  all  the  plagues  that  ever  were  heard  of — there 
never  was  invented  such  a  plague  as  girls!  Stand  there, 
you  screeching  vixen,  and  listen  to  me!  That  man's  your 
husband — do  you  hear  me,  mistress?  Your  hushand — 
the  master  of  your  destiny — your  owner  for  life.  Fm  not 
going  to  keep  another  man's  wife  here.  Drop  that  howl- 
ing, and  get  ready  and  go  with  the  man  you  have  married." 

**  I  never  married  him!"  Estella  wildly  cried.  **  I  would 
have  died  ten  thousand  deaths  sooner!  1  thought  it  was 
Dick  Derwent^  and  he  knows  it.  1  will  never  go  with  him 
— 1  will  never  speak  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives!  If  you  let 
him  lay  one  finger  upon  me,  I  will  kill  myself — I  will. 
Uncle  Fisher — and  my  blood  will  be  on  your  head!'" 


\»f 


■■» 


I 


estella's  hlskand. 


She  spoke  and  looked  like  one  demented — her  fare  j^liast- 
]y  pale,  her  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  her  brown  liair 
all  wild  and  disheveled  about  her. 

The  old  sinner  recoiled,  and  stood  staring  at  her  in  dis- 
may. 

"  I  really  believe  you  uwuhl,  you  little  tigress!'*  he  ex- 
claimed. "Barrel!,  what,  in  the  name  of  all  the  fiends, 
are  we  to  do  with  this  exasperating  minx?** 

Captain  Darrell  shrugged  his  broad  fchoulders,  and 
lounged  easily  up  against  the  chimney-piece. 

"  She's  excited  now,  vion  ami — she'll  think  better  of  it 
by  and  by.  Didn't  1  hear  you  speak  about  locking  up 
Miss  Mallory,  upon  bread  and  water,  not  long  ago?  Try 
that  cooling  prescription  with  Mrs.  Roysten  l)arrell  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  see  how  it  works.  It  is  rather  trying  to 
begin  the  honey-moon — widowed;  but  what  can't  be  cui-ed, 
etc.  Meantime,  with  your  good  permission,  I'll  light  a 
cigar,  and  go  home. " 

He  took  out  an  inlaid  cigar-case,  selected  a  weed,  and 
coolly  lighted  it. 

"Your  wife  shall  go  with  you,  Darrell  I"  Peter  Fisher 
exclaimed,  with  flashmg  eyes.  "  By  all  the  furies,  I  am 
not  to  be  baffled  by  a  girl  in  her  teens!  Stand  up  here,  you 
diabolical  little  viper,  and  hear  me  for  the  last  time.  Will 
you  go  with  your  husband,  or  will  you  not?" 

**  He  is  no  husband  of  mine,  and  1  will  be  torn  to  pieces 
before  1  go  with  him!"  Estella  answered,  wildly. 

"  And  so  you  shall — for  your  choice  lies  between  going 
with  him,  or  being  torn  to  pieces  by  the  rats  in  the  attic. 
1  swear  by  all  that  is  holy,  girl,  if  you  refuse  to  go  with 
Roysten  Darrell,  the  moment  the  door  closes  upon  him,  up 
garret  you  go,  to  be  starved  and  eaten  alive  by  an  army  of 
rats!  Take  your  choice — freedom  and  a  bridegroom,  or 
starvation  and  the  rats." 

"  Better  rats  than  murderers!"  the  girl  cried,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  "  Anythiuf/  is  belter  than  that  dread- 
ful man!  I  am  not  his  wife,  and  you  know  it.  I  can  die, 
but  1  can  never,  never  go  with  him!" 

"  Be  it  so,  then!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  of 
suppressed  fury.  "  You  have  chosen.  Roysten  Darrell, 
go!  She  shall  abide  by  her  choice.  Judith,  woman,  light 
the  captain  out,  and  then  go  to  bed.  By  this  time  to- 
morrow night,  my  lady,  your  hot  blood  will  hardly  bouiiil 


'J  ■''{ 


( 


I' 


ESTELLA'-fl    HUSBAND. 


80  high.  1  know  what  a  night  among  rats  is  like,  if  yoa 
don't.  Away  with  you,  Darrell!  Your  bride  will  not  go 
with  YOU  to-night." 

**  One  laat  ciiance,  Estella,**  said  Roysten  Darrell,  start- 
ing up  and  drawing  near.  **  Come  with  mo!  You  are  my 
wile,  and  Til  treat  you  well — I  will,  upon  Uie  honor  of  an 
outlaw  I  Come — you'll  find  me  better  company  than  the 
rata  in  the  attic." 

But  at  his  approach  the  shrieks  broke  out  again,  and  she 
fled  away  to  the  remotest  end  of  the  room. 

*'  Go!"  said  Peter  Fiaher,  sternly;  **  waste  no  mora 
words.  I'll  make  her  repent  her  obstinacy  to  the  last 
day  of  her  life.  Light  him  out,  Judith,  and — you  needn't 
come  back. " 

**  Good-night,  then,"  said  the  captain  of  the  **  Raven," 
swinging  round,  "  since  you  will  have  it  so.  I  will  live  in 
the  hope  of  a  more  favorable  answer  to-morrow.  Good- 
night, Fisher!  Temper  justice  with  mercy — give  her  a 
light  and  a  switch  to  scare  oS  the  rats. " 

He  was  gone.  Judith  followed  him  out  with  a  candle. 
From  first  to  last  she  bad  not  uttered  a  word.  She  had 
stood  looking  about,  as  grim  and  unmoved  as  a  Chinese 
idol. 

^*  Now,  then,  mistress!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  a 
diabolical  grin;  "  now  for  your  choice — now  for  the  attic, 
now  for  the  rats!    Come!" 

Estella  held  up  her  clasped  hands  and  white,  wild  face. 

**  Have  pity  on  me!"  she  cried.  ^'Oh,  Uncle  Fisher, 
don't — dov?t  shut  me  up  in  ^^hat  dreadful  place!" 

**  The  choice  is  your  own,  he  said,  furiously  clutching 
her  by  the  arm.  **  You  it^ould  have  it,  and,  by  Heaven, 
up  you  go!  I  will  teach  you  what  it  is  to  defy  and  enrage 
me  !  Stop  that  whining.  I  won't  have  it  Up  you  go, 
though  an  angel  were  to  descend  from  realms  celestial  to 
plead  your  cause.     Come!" 

He  grasped  her  furiously,  and  dragged  her  along.  She 
struggled  and  screamed,  but  old  as  he  ^vas,  her  strength 
was  as  nothing  to  the  roused  old  tiger.  He  drew  her  to  the 
door,  and  met  Judith  returning  with  the  light. 

"  Go  on  before!"  thundered  her  master.  **  It  is  as 
much  as  1  can  do  to  drag  this  vixen  up." 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look,  the  woman  turned  to 
obey,  deaf  to  the  victim's  wild  cries. 


EtiTELLA's    HUSBAND. 


39 


If 


as 
to 


'*  Save  me,  Judithl  Oh,  .Tiidithl  Judith:  help  mo! 
Don't  let  him  look  me  in  that  awful  pluuel  Oh,  Judith, 
help  me!  help  niu!" 

lUit  Judith  stalked  grimly  on,  neither  looking  to  the 
right  nor  left. 

"Aha!"  chuckled  EstoUa'H  tormentor,  '*  you  begin  to 
dread  it  already,  do  you?  Well,  it's  not  too  late  yet. 
(Shall  I  send  Judith  out  after  Koynten  Darrell?" 

"  No — no — no!  a  thousand  times  no!  liut  oh,  Uncle 
Fisher,  pity  me — save  me!  For  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  don't 
lock  mo  in  the  attic!" 

She  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  wall,  lie  beat 
down  the  struggling  hands  and  face  furiously,  and  dragged 
her  after  him  by  main  force.  Past  her  room,  up  the  creak- 
ing, rotting  attic  stairs — up  amid  dust  and  darkness,  and 
silence  and  desolation. 

**  Throw  open  the  door,  Judith,"  ordered  Peter  Fisher, 
*' until  I  fling  her  in!" 

She  obeyed.  A  rush  of  cold  air  came  out  and  almost 
extinguished  the  light.  Estella  had  one  glimpse  of  the 
pitchy  blackness^  of  the  horrible  creatures  scampering  nois- 
ily over  the  floor,  of  the  bloated  black  beetles  and  spiders 
on  the  wall,  and  then  she  was  thrust  in  headlong,  the  door 
drawn  violently  to,  the  key  turned,  and  she  was  locked  in 
the  attic.  Her  last  long  scream  might  have  curdled  their 
blood,  so  like  that  of  a  maniac  did  it  sound. 

Old  Judith  turned  to  her  master,  and  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

*'  That  girl  will  be  raving  mad  by  morning,"  she  said, 
with  a  stony  stare. 

"Let  her,"  snarled  Peter  Fisher.  "She  deserves  it. 
No  one  in  this  house  shall  defy  me  with  impunity!  You 
mind  your  own  business,  old  beldame,  and  go  to  bed. " 

He  snatched  the  light  from  her,  gave  her  a  vicious  push 
as  a  hint  to  precede  him,  and  followed  her  down  the  grimy 
stairs.  She  spoke  no  more.  She  stalked  on  ahead,  silent 
and  grim.  But  at  her  own  chamber-door  she  paused, 
turned,  favored  her  master  with  a  second  death's-head 
stare,  opened  her  lips,  and  spoke: 

"  '^^he  girl  will  be  mad  or  dead  by  morning!  Mind,  I've 
war»*^  you!" 

V'^iore  he  oould  speak,  she  had  disappeared,  slammed 
tlm  w^oor  and  locked  it  in  his  face. 


♦  V 


r 


'  1 

'1 

I 


I'    !  i    II! 


40 


estella's  husband. 


» 


**  I'd  like  to  lock  you  with  her,  you  brimstone  witch! 
snarled  the  old  man,  viciously,  his  little  eyes  glaring. 
'*  Let  her  go  mad!  What  do  I  care?  Mad  or  sane,  she  is 
married,  and  Monsieur  the  Count  shall  pay  me  many  a 
bright  gold  piece  before  he  gets  his  daughter. '* 

He  walked  on  to  his  room  and  went  grimly  to  bed,  and 
Estella  was  alone  in  the  attic. 

Alone,  in  the  inexpressible  horrors  of  that  most  horrible 
prison.  The  wind  shrieked  madly;  the  rain  beat  in  tor- 
rents upon  the  roof  and  poured  in  through  a  dozen  aper- 
tures; the  blackness  was  something  palpable —something 
to  be  felt;  the  raw  cold  pierced  to  the  none;  the  sea  roared 
like  a  thousand  wild  beasts  let  loose.  Without  and  within, 
horrors  and  tempest  untold. 

She  stood  in  the  spot  where  the  old  man  had  thrust  her, 
benumbed.  The  uproar  without,  so  plainly  heard  here, 
deafened  and  stunned  her  at  first.  But  only  for  a  few  mo- 
ments; then  she  awoke — awoke  fully  to  the  greater  horrors 
within. 

She  could  hear  the  rats  scampering  back  with  the  noise 
of  a  troop  of  horses.  She  could  see  the  glitter  of  their 
fierce  eyes  in  the  dark;  she  could  hear  their  shrill  cries. 
She  seemed  to  see  again  the  myriads  of  loathsome,  crawl- 
ing things  that  blackened  the  walls,  and  now — and  now 
the  rats  were  upon  her! 

Her  shrieks  broke  out  afresh — mad,  mad  shrieks  of  in- 
sanest  terror.  But  they  were  upon  her — crawling  over  her 
feet,  beneath  her  clothes;  more  than  once  their  sharp 
teeth  fastened  in  her  flesh.  She  could  not  shake  them  off. 
She  rushed  to  the  door;  she  beat  upon  it  madly;  her  hands 
were  all  cut,  and  torn,  and  bleeding;  her  screams  were 
something  fearful  to  hear. 

In  vain — all  in  vain!  Still  they  came — fierce  and  count- 
less; they  swarmed  around  her — upon  her;  they  bit  fiercely 
at  the  yielding  flesh.  One  last,  agonizing  cry,  and  then 
she  fell,  face  forward,  among  them — dead  to  them  and  all 
mortal  agony. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

**  SICK   AND  IN   PRISON." 

Old  Judith  had  gone  to  her  room,  but  r:ot  to  bed.     Be- 
neath that  grim,  iron  surface,  somewhere  beat  a  woman's 


estella's  husband. 


41 


heart,  or  the  callous  remains  of  one.  She  knew  what  the 
attic  of  Fisher's  Folly  was  like;  she  knew  the  horrors  of 
darkness  and  hordes  of  fierce  rata.  She  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed>  and  listened  to  the  mad  uproar  of  wind, 
and  rain,  and  sea. 

'*  Fit  night  for  such  a  marriage/'  she  thought — **  fit 
night  for  such  demons'  babes  as  Roysten  Darreil  and  Peter 
Fisher.  Brave  men  both  to  pit  themselves  against  one  lit- 
tle, helpless  girl — both  heroes  each!  Will  I  sit  here  and 
let  that  child  go  raving  mad  up  there?  She  called  upon 
me  for  help,  in  her  agony,  and  I — 1  had  a  daughter  once. " 

The  grim  old  face  worked.  Another  wild  gale  shook  the 
old  house,  rattled  noisily  at  doors  and  windows,  and  beat 
the  rain  in  a  deluge  against  the  walls. 

'*  A  horrible  night,"  Judith  thought,  with  a  shudder; 
**  a  horrible  house  to  live  in,  and  horrible  wretches  to  live 
among.  And  I  am  as  bad  as  the  worst  if  1  sit  here  and  see 
that  child  go  mad.  No,  Peter  Fisher,  turn  me  out  to- 
morrow upon  the  cold  world,  if  you  will — 1  will  defy  and 
disobey  you  to-night." 

She  seized  her  candle,  strode  to  the  door,  and  up  the 
creaking  stairs  to  the  attic — just  in  time,  and  no  more,  to 
hear  that  last,  frenzied  shriek  and  that  dull,  heavy  fall. 

"Estella!"  she  called,  rattling  at  the  door,  ^'Estella, 
child!  it  is  Judith.  Speak  to  me.  I  am  going  to  break 
the  lock  and  let  you  out." 

But  there  was  no  reply.  Only  the  frantic  raving  of  the 
tempest,  the  noisy  scampering  of  the  rats. 

**  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  sinners!"  cried  the  old  wom- 
an, remorse-stricken.  *^  She  has  fallen  in  a  dead  laint^ 
and  the  rats  are  eating  her  alive!" 

She  looked  around;  a  heavy  bar  of  iron  lay  among  a  heap 
of  rubbish  in  a  corner  of  the  passage.  To  seize  this,  to 
batter  down  the  old  lock,  was  hardly  the  work  of  three 
minutes. 

But  the  noise  had  reached  the  keen  ears  of  the  master  of 
Fisher's  Folly.  Before  her  work  was  done  she  heard  the 
shuffling  tread  of  his  slippered  feet,  and  saw  his  fierce, 
wrathful  old  face  glaring  upon  her  from  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

"  What  in  the  fiend's  name  are  you  about,  you  hag?" 
he  cried,  furiously.     **  Have  you  gone  mad?" 

No,"  said  Judith,  never  pausing  in  her  work^  '*  bat 


i 


'M 


4( 


42 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


'H 


li! 
ii 


M,^ll! 


Jour  yictim  has.  Pm  bad  enough^  the  Lord  knows,  or 
'd  not  be  housekeeper  for  tea  years  to  an  incarnate  devil 
like  you^  Peter  Fisher;  but  I'll  not  stand  by  and  see  a 
murder  done,  while  1  have  hands  to  help  or  a  voice  to  cry 
out.'* 

The  old  man  rushed  forward,  his  eyes  literally  blazing 
with  fury. 

**  ru  throttle  you,  you  diabolical  old  hag!  Stop  that 
this  instant  and  go  back  to  your  room!" 

But  Judith  raised  her  formidable  bar,  with  an  unflinch- 
ing face. 

**  Don't  come  near  me,  Mr.  Fisher — don't  try  to  stop 
me!  I'm  not  often  roused,  but  I'm  the  more  dangerous 
when  1  am  !  I'll  take  this  child  out  of  her  prison,  or  I'll 
know  the  reason  why!  Stand  back — I'm  not  afraid  of 
you!    Stand  back,  I  say,  and  let  me  work!" 

He  recoiled,  absolutely  frightened.  In  all  his  ten  years' 
experience  of  her  he  had  never  seen  that  look  on  the  gaunt 
face  of  his  housekeeper  before.  It  was  dangerous  to  thwart 
her  now.  She  beat  down  the  rusty  lock  with  one  last  blow, 
and  flung  the  old  door  wide. 

**  You  shall  pay  for  this  to-morrow,  you  beldame!"  he 
hissed,  in  impotent  rage. 

But  she  never  heedS  him.  Still  grasping  her  bar  in  one 
hand,  and  her  light  in  the  other,  she  stalked  in,  scaring  the 
army  of  rats. 

There,  face  downward  on  the  floor,  lay  the  unhappy  vic- 
tim, the  blood  oozing  from  a  deep  cut  in  her  forehead. 

**  Come  in,  Peter  Fisher,"  Judith  called,  **  and  look  at 
your  <vork!" 

The  old  man  advanced,  recoiled,  turned  the  color  of  yel- 
low parchment  at  sight  of  the  flowing  blood. 

**  Good  heavens!"  he  gasped.     "  Is  she  dead?" 

'*  It  is  to  be  hoped  so.  Better  death  than  madness. 
Will  I  leave  her  here  to  the  rats — they  will  soon  finish  their 
work — and  go  back  down-stairs?" 

'*  No,  no,  no!  Judith,  I  never  meant  to  kill  her.  1 
didn't  think  she  would —    Why,  she  has  only  fainted." 

For  Judith  had  raised  her  in  her  strong  old  arms  like  a 
feather's  weight. 

'*  Stand  aside,"  she  said,  grimly.  "  Your  work  is  done, 
and  you  may  be  proud  of  it.     The  moment  she  dies  I'll 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAin). 


48 


walk  straight  to  Rockledge  and  denounce  yon  as  lier  mur- 
derer.    Stand  aside,  and  let  mo  pass. " 

He  obeyed,  shaking  as  if  with  palsy. 

The  sight  of  that  death-like  face,  covered  with  blood, 
struck  an  icy  chill  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 

**  If  she  should  be  dead!''  he  thought.  "  What  will  be- 
come of  me  if  she  should  be  dead?" 

He  followed  the  housekeeper  down-stairs  to  the  door  of 
Estella's  room,  but  she  would  not  permit  him  to  enter. 

**  Go  to  your  own,"  she  said,  authoritatively.  "  If  she 
is  dead  you  will  know  it  soon  enough." 

She  was  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  he  obeyed  her  liko 
a  whrpped  child. 

**  If  she  should  be  dead!"  The  horrible  thought  kept 
repeating  itself  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind.  **  If  she 
is  dead,  what  will  become  of  me  f" 

She  was  not  dead!  Judith  laid  her  upon  the  bed, 
sponged  the  blood  off  of  that  icy  face,  applied  hartshorn, 
burned  feathers,  cold  water  and  smart  slapping,  and  after 
more  than  an  hour  brought  back  the  fluttering  breath. 
The  eyelids  quivered  an  instant,  the  blue  lips  parted,  then 
the  great,  dark  eyes  opened  and  looked  up. 

**  Judith,"  she  said,  "  what  is  it?    Where  am  1?" 

**  In  your  own  room,  my  dear.  Here,  keep  still,  and 
take  this  warm  drink." 

But  she  pushed  the  drink  away,  her  eyes  growing  wild 
with  horror. 

**  And  the  rats!"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Judith,  the  rats!  the 
rats!    Save  me  from  them — save  me!  save  me!  save  me!" 

She  grasped  the  old  woman,  shriek  after  shriek  ringing 
frantically  through  the  room.  Suddenly  her  hands  relaxed, 
the  screams  ceased,  and  she  fell  back,  once  more  insensi- 
ble, upon  her  pillow. 

Morning  was  breaking,  rainy  and  raw,  before  she^awoke 
from  that  second  swoon,  and  then  only  to  rave  in  t^e  wild 
delirum  of  brain  fever. 

She  tossed  upon  her  hot  pillow,  flinging  her  arms  about, 
her  cheeks  flushed  burning  red,  her  eyes  glittering,  her 
tongue  running  at  random. 

As  Judith  opened  the  door,  in  the  gray,  chill  dawn,  she 
beheld  her  master,  huddled  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude 
of  fear,  in  the  passage,  waiting,  listening. 


5 


if 


44 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


m   '■ 


um 


' 


<4 


Will  she  die,  Judith?"  he  whined,  piteously.  **  Oh, 
Judith,  will  she  die?*' 

**  Listen  to  her,"  said  Judith,  calmly.  *'  Does  that 
sound  as  though  she  would  live?  If  you  want  breakfast 
this  morning,  Mr.  Fisher,  you  may  get  it  for  yourself. 
I'm  going  out." 

**  Where?" 

**  To  Bockledge,  for  a  doctor." 

**  Must  we  have  a  doctor?  Consider  the  expense,  Ju- 
dith! I'm  a  poor  man,  and  doctors  are  frightfully  expen- 
sive.   Must  we  have  a  doctor?" 

He  caught  her  dress  with  that  piteous  whine — changed 
in  a  few  hours  from  a  savage  tyrant  to  a  cringing  slave 
through  the  influence  of  abject  terror. 

The  woman  plucked  her  skirt  away,  with  a  look  of  grim 
contempt. 

'*  Yes,  we  must  have  a  doctor,  and  medicine,  and  a 
nurse,  and  port  wine,  and  beef -tea,  and  chicken  broth,  and 
jellies,"  she  replied,  with  stony  satisfaction;  **  and  you 
shall  pay  for  all,  and  be  thankful  if  they  save  you  from  the 
gallows.  I  don't  think  you  will  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  lock 
any  one  up  in  garrets  again,  Mr.  Fisher." 

'*  Don't  tell  the  doctor  about  that!"  exclaimed  Peter 
Fisher,  in  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  terror.  "  You  don't  know 
what  he  might  do  if  he  heard  it.  And  the  girl  may  die! 
Don't  tell  him,  Judith — my  good  Judith — and  I — 1 11  be 
a  friend  to  you  all  your  life!" 

Judith's  only  reply  was  a  look  of  "  ineffable  scorn,"  as 
she  stalked  by,  in  stony  silence,  to  her  own  apartment. 

Through  rain  and  wind,  in  the  bleak  dawn,  the  old  wom- 
an made  her  way  to  Eockledge,  routed  out  the  most  experi- 
enced doctor  in  the  place,  and  sent  him  in  his  gig  to  Fish- 
er's Folly. 

For  herself,  she  strode  back,  unmindful  of  wet  and  mud, 
«nd  arrived  just  as  the  physician  was  leaving. 

**  A  serious  attack  of  brain  fever,"  the  doctor  said, 
gravely — '*  a  very  serious  attack.  Pray  what  shock  Lab 
Miss  Mallory  received  to  bring  it  on?" 

Old  Peter  Fisher  fidgeted  and  looked  everywhere  but  in 
his  questioner's  stern  eyes. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  he  said,  querulously.  '*  What  do 
you  think?    Is  she  likely  to  recover?" 

"  She  mai/f  she  has  youth  and  a  superu  constitution  to 


i; 


estella's  husband. 


45 


betriend  her;  but  I  tell  you  seriously  this  is  a  very  danger- 
ous case,  and  may  end  in  death  or  insanity.  She  requires 
the  most  devoted  nursing  by  night  and  day,  the  tenderest 
care — care  which  the  old  woman  is  not  constituted  to  give 
her.  You  must  procure  an  experienced  nurse,  Mr. 
Fisher." 

"  Will  it  do  to-morrow?"  gasped  the  terrified  old  man. 
**  1 — 1  expect  a  friend  to-day,  and  I  want  to  consult  with 
him.     Will  to-morrow  do?" 

*'  It  mustf  if  you  say  so.  I  will  be  here  to-morrow,  and 
every  day,  and  do  my  utmost  for  my  patient.  Poor  little 
Essie!  I  always  liked  the  child!  She  must  have  had  a 
ter  ^.ble  nervous  shock!" 

The  doctor  departed,  and  the  old  man  went  to  his  room. 
He  took  no  breakfast,  he  took  no  dinner,  he  was  too  thor- 
oughly frightened  and  miserable  even  to  eat. 

He  sat  crouched  in  his  chair  over  the  fire,  his  grizzled 
head  in  his  hands,  waiting  for  Koysten  Darrell.  And  in 
the  sick-room  Judith  sat,  with  untiring  patience. 

About  three  o'clock  of  the  bleak  afternoon,  the  captain 
of  the  **  Raven "  made  his  appearance.  He  entered, 
blustering  as  the  god  of  the  wind — the  picture  of  superb 
masculine  health  and  strength — a  strange  contrast  to  tiiat 
cowering,  wretched  old  man. 

**  Well,  uncle-in -law!"  cried  Captain  Darrell,  in  his  big, 
bass  voice,  **  and  how  are  we  to-day?  And  how  is  the  re- 
bellious bride?    Come  to  her  senses  yet?" 

"'  She  has  lost  them  altogether,"  answered  the  old  man, 
starting  up  and  trembling.  **  Listen  to  that,  Koysten 
Darrell!" 

He  held  up  his  finger.  In  the  pause  that  followed  they 
«ould  hear  Estella's  voice,  loud  and  strange,  talking  rapidly. 

The  captain  of  the  **  Raven  "  turned  his  inquiring  eyes 
upon  Peter  Fisher, 

**  She  has  gone  mad!"  said  the  old  man,  in  an  awful 
whisper.  **  She  is  raving  in  brain  fever.  The  rats  up  in 
the  attic  have  driven  her  insane.  We  overdid  it,  Roysten 
Darrell!  Do  you  hear?"  catching  and  shaking  him  in  fear 
and  rage.     *'  We  overdid  it!" 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  you  old  tyrant!"  said  Captain 
Darrell,  flinging  him  off.  **  /had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
What  did  1  know  of  your  infernal  attic?    So  she  has  gone 


I' 


i 


46 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


mad,  has  she:    Poor  little  Estella!    Upon  my  soul,  Tm 
sorry!" 

•*  We  bad  the  doctor  here  to-day,"  continued  Peter 
Fisher,  still  trembling  with  terror  and  excitement.  "Ju- 
dith went  for  him,  and  he  says  it's  ten  to  one  if  she  ever  re- 
covers life  and  reason.  She  must  have  medicine  and  an 
experienced  nurse,  and  he  will  visit  her  every  day.  It 
makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  of  it — the  expense,  Dar- 
rell — the  awful  expense!" 

**  When  did  your  blood  ever  run  otherwise  than  cold, 
you  venerable  reptile?"  responded  Koysten  Darrell,  with 
unutterable  contempt.  "  You're  a  more  villainous  old 
miser  than  1  ever  gave  you  credit  for,  if  you  can  think  of 
expense  at  such  a  time.  Let  the  doctor  come,  and  the 
nurse,  too.  Fll  pay  the  one  and  provide  the  other.  Poor 
little  girl!  I  don't  set  up  for  a  saint,  but,  by  Jove!  this  is 
the  meanest  and  dirtiest  job  1  ever  had  a  hand  in." 

*'  Will  you,  Roysten — will  you  really?"  gasped  Mr. 
Fisher,  with  kindling  eyes — **  toill  you  pay  the  doctor  and 
provide  the  nurse?  Now  that's  generous  of  you,  and  no 
more  than  just  either,  for  she's  your  wife,  you  know,  now. 
It's  like  you,  Roysten,  and  you're  a  good  fellow. " 

"You  thundering  crocodile!"  responded  Captain  Dar- 
rell, towering  up  to  twice  his  usual  size  in  the  intensity  of 
his  contempt,  "don't  turn  me  sick!  Did  you  keep  the 
girl  up  there  all  night?" 

Peter  Fisher,  by  way  of  answer,  related  minutely  aU  tiwt 
had  occurred. 

"  So,  thanks  to  old  Judith,  and  not  to  you,  that  the 
rats  did  not  eat  her  alive!  If  she  dies,  won't  you  stand  in 
the  tallest  sort  of  clover,  my  clever  old  friend?  I'll  go  to 
your  hanging  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Roysten!"  cried  the  old  mftn, 
piteously — "  don't!  She  won't  die!  We'll  nurse  her  back 
to  health  and  strength — she  shall  want  for  nothing.  Whr^ 
is  the  nurse  you  are  going  to  send,  and  when  will  you  send 
her?" 

"  I'll  send  her  to-day.  As  to  who  she  is — ask  me  no 
questions  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies.  She  is  one  of  the  best 
nurses  that  ever  sat  by  a  sick-bed,  that's  all  you  need  to 
know.  And  remember  you  don't  starve  her  while  she's 
here — she  isn't  used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  mine  ancient 
crony.     She  and  the  sick  girl  must  have  everything  they 


iV    i 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


4T 


want — mind,  Mr.  Miser,  everything  !    Don't  let  me  hear 
any  complaints  when  I  come  back.'* 

**  When  you  come  back?    Are  you  going  away?** 


<« 


I'm  going  to  take  a  run  up  to  New  York  in  the 
'  Raven.'  Our  cargo's  discharged — all  has  gone  well  thi» 
bout,  and  the  little  craft  stands  in  need  of  repairs.  I'll 
leave  her  in  the  dry  dock  for  a  few  weeks  and  enjoy  myself 
in  Gotham.  I'll  be  back  in  five  weeks  at  the  uttermost, 
and  hope  to  find  our  little  girl  up  and  about  once  more,  and 
ready  to  recruit  her  health  and  spirits  by  a  sea-voyage. 
And  now,  good-bye  to  you,  old  fellow!  Look  out  for  the 
nurse  in  the  course  of  the  evening. " 

Peter  Fisher  remained  alone  in  his  room,  cowering  over 
the  fire,  until  the  dull  day  wore  itself  out,  and  the  duller 
night  fell.  It  was  quite  dark  before  the  nurse  made  her 
appearance — a  nurse  who  strangely  startled  the  old  man, 
so  young  and  duskily  beautiful  was  she. 

**  I  thought  he  would  have  sent  an  elderly  party,"  gasp- 
ed Mr.  Fisher.  **  Why,  you  don't  look  much  older  than 
Estella  yourself." 

"  I  am  three-and-twenty,"  answered  the  nurse,  in  a  sil- 
very, foreign-toned  voice,  "  and  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
experience.     I  am  quite  capable  of  nursing  Miss  Mallory. " 

**  So  Captain  Darrell  has  told  you  all  about  her,  I  see. 
Have  you  known  him  long,  my  dear?"  inquired  the  old 
man,  with  a  cunning  leer. 

The  great  black  eyes  looked  at  him,  solemn,  shining. 

*'  Long  enough  to  know  he  never  answers  unnecessary 
questions,  sir." 

*'  What  is  your  name?" 
'*  Oarlotta  Mendez." 
Ah!  a  foreigner — I  thought  so." 
A  Cuban,  sir.     Will  you  permit  me  to  go  to  mv  pa- 
tient?" 

Mr.  Fisher  seized  the  hand-bell,  and  rang  loudly.  A 
moment,  and  Judith  appeared. 

"  Here  is  the  new  nurse,  old  woman,"  snarled  her  mas- 
ter, with  a  vicious  look,  **  She  will  take  your  place,  and 
yoN  will  take  yourself  back  to  the  kitchen.  Get  me  my 
supper,  and  quick  p,bout  it. " 

Judith  and  Carlotta  surveyed  each  other  with  imper* 
turbable  countenances. 


(4 


<( 


..      J' 


.!   \^ 


;."  !l 


48 


estella's  husband. 


**  This  way,  ma'am,"  eaid  the  old  woman,  turning  down 
the  passage  to  the  siok-room. 

*'  How  is  your  patient  to-night?"  the  new  nurse  asked. 

**  Sleeping  just  now,  and  as  well  as  she  ever  will  be  in 
this  world,  I  reckon.*' 

"  You  think,  then,  she  will  die?" 

Judith  nodded  grimly. 

*  Look  for  yourself,  ma'am,"  she  said,  ushering  her 
companion  in.  "Does  that  look  like  the  face  of  a  girl 
liktly  to  recover?" 

Carlotta  bent  over  the  bed.  "White  as  death  itself  Estella 
lay,  and  as  still.  The  young  nurse  felt  her  pulse,  listened 
to  her  breathing,  laid  her  hand  on  the  hot  head,  with  f^n 
experienced  air. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  slowly.  **  She 
is  very  low,  but  I  think  both  life  and  reason  will  return; 
and  I  have  nursed  such  cases  as  this  before. " 

From  that  hour,  Cariotta  established  herself  mistress  of 
the  sick-room.  The  doctor  looked  in  surprise,  when  he 
came,  at  the  youthful  and  darkly  beautiful  face,  and  put 
her  through  a  sharp  cross-examination.  All  questions  re- 
lating to  her  profession  she  answered  clearly  and  intelli- 
gently, but  all  relating  to  herself  she  calmly  ignored. 

"  if  Mr.  Fisher  is  satisfied,  and  if  you  find  me  compe- 
tent to  fulfill  my  duties,  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  re- 
lating my  biography  to  a  perfect  stranger,"  she  said,  coldly 
transfixing  him  with  her  wonderful  black  eyes. 

The  doctor  grunted  and  asked  no  more  questions.  That 
she  was  thoroughly  competent,  he  soon  saw.  By  night 
and  by  day  she  hovered  constantly  beside  the  sick-bed, 
sleepless  and  devoted,  anticipating  every  wish — a  very 
jewel  of  a  nurse. 

**  You  are  a  treasure,  Madame  Oarlotta,"  the  physician 
said  to  her,  one  day,  in  a  burst  of  professional  enthusiasm. 
**  Estella  will  owe  her  recovery  as  much  to  your  nursing  as 
to  my  skill. " 

For  Estella  was  recovering  slowly  but  surely.  Before 
the  close  of  the  first  fortnight,  the  hazel  eyes  opened  to 
calm  life  and  reason  once  more — pened,  and  looked 
dreamily  in  the  dark  face  bending  over  her. 

**  Who  are  you?"  she  had  whispered,  faintly. 

**  Your  friend,"  answered  the  sweetest  voice,  it  seemed 


estella's  husband. 


m 


*> 


to  the  girl,  she  had  ever  heard;  *'  but  you  are  not  to  talk. 
You  are  to  drink  this,  and  go  to  sleep." 

She  obeyed — too  fetble  even  to  wondci — and  slept  long 
and  soundly.  When  she  again  awoke,  many  hours  after, 
the  dark  face  was  still  there. 


(* 


I  don't  know  you,"  she  said.     **  Tell  me  your  name. " 
**  My  name  is  Carlotta.     I  am  your  nurse.     You  have 
been  ill." 

"  III,  have  Ih'*  very  faintly.  "  What  has  been  the  mat- 
ter?" 

**  BrPiin  fever;  but  you  are  better  now.  Only  you  must 
not  talk  until  you  have  grown  a  little  stronger. " 

Again  Estella  obeyed,  through  sheer  weakness.  Bu»Iife 
and  strength  cam'  pidly,  and  beat  strongly  in  bo r  breast. 
Before  the  end  o  ine  third  week  she  was  able  to  sit  up  in 
bed  and  eat  the  dainty  little  messes  the  young  nurse  con- 
cocted with  her  own  hands. 

Memory  returned  with  that  new  life,  and  slowly  Estella 
remembered  all  the  events  of  that  horrible  night.  It  seemed 
a  long  way  off  now,  and  with  a  thrill  of  terror  she  realized 
her  present  situation.  Sick  and  a  prisoner — in  the  power 
of  Peter  Fisher  and  Roysten  Darrell — alone  and  friendless 
in  the  wide  world.  Where  was  Dick  Derwent?  What 
must  he  think  of  her?  "Was  he,  too,  in  the  clutches  of 
those  merciless  men? 

She  asked  no  questions — some  vague  intuition  told  her 
the  owner  of  that  dark,  unsmiling  face  would  answer  none. 
She  lay,  and  thought  and  thought,  and  realized  fully  all 
her  helplessness  and  misery,  until  a  sick  despair  took  pos- 
session of  her  body  and  soul. 

"  Why  did  I  not  die?"  she  ihought,  wearily.  "  Others 
die  for  whom  the  world  is  bright,  but  I — I,  who  have  noth- 
nig  to  live  for,  nothing  to  hope  for,  I  grow  well. " 

No;  Estella  had  nothing  to  hope  for.  Peter  Fisher's 
ward  knew  very  little  of  that  other  radiant  world,  where 
all  the  misery  of  this  lower  life  ends,  and  perfect  joy  be- 
gins. She  was  little  better  than  a  heathen,  poor  child, 
with  a  very  vague  idea  of  that  blissful  land  where  the 
crooked  things  of  this  earth  are  made  straight  and  patient 
womanly  martyrs  receive  their  crown.  It  was  all  daik  to 
her,  lying  there  on  that  forlorn  sick-bed — past  help,  pait 
hope,  past  every thin}?o 


i\ 


i 


I" 


(H* 


.i./ii 


ESTELLA  8    HUSBAND. 

**  I  should  like  to  see  a  copy  of  the  Rockledge  *  Kews,' 
Carlotta,"  she  said,  suddenly,  one  day  to  her  nurse. 

Sho  was  sitting  up  now,  wan  and  white  as  a  spirit,  but 
daily  growing  stronger  in  spite  of  her  despair.  It  was  the 
first  wish  she  had  expressed,  and  her  nurse  hastened  to 
gratify  it.  She  left  the  room,  and  returned  in  a  few  mo- 
ments with  a  recent  copy  of  the  pappv. 

Estella  took  it,  glanced  eagerly  up  and  down  its  columns, 
jind  at  length,  amid  the  advertisements,  found  what  she 
wanted.  It  was  an  offer  of  fifty  dollars  reward  from  the 
editor  of  the  journal  for  any  information  of  Richard  Der- 
went,  sub-editor,  who  had  mysteriously  disappeared  on  the 
night  of  the  eleventh  of  May. 

Her  pale  face  grew  a  shade  whiter.  She  laid  down  the 
paper,  and  looked  at  her  nurse. 

**  What  day  of  the  month  is  this?"  she  asked. 

**  The  second  of  June. " 

The  girl  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Her  worst  fears  were  realized.  Poor  Dick  was 
in  the  power  of  Roysten  Darrell — like  herself,  a  prisoner. 

"It  is  time  you  returned  to  bed.  Miss  Mallory,'*  Car- 
lotta  said,  at  length.  "  Let  me  undress  you  and  put  you 
back  to  bed.  You  must  have  your  supper  and  go  to 
sleep." 

"  I  can't  take  any  supper  to-night, *'  Estella  said,  mourn- 
fully.    *' I  want  to  see  Mr.  Fisher." 

The  fathomless  black  eyes  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

**  Indeed!  Well,  I  will  tell  Mr.  JFisher  as  soon  as  you  are 
in  bed.'' 

She  helped  her  patient  in,  arranged  the  clothes,  and 
quitted  the  room.  Estella  lay  very  still — white  as  the  pil- 
lows— the  brown  eyes,  the  pale,  patient  face  full  of  inex- 
pressible despair. 

The  old  man  came  at  once,  shrinking  a  little,  hard  as  he 
was,  from  those  mournful  eyes.  But  there  was  no  anger, 
nore  proach,  in  that  sad,  young  face — the  look  was  infi- 
nitely more  touching  to  see. 

"  How  do,  Estella?  You're  better  again.  I*m  glad  of 
that,"  the  old  man  said,  shuffling  uneasily. 

**  Yes,  I  am  getting  better,"  the  girl  said,  slowlj.  **  If 
my  life  was  a  happy  one,  I  suppose  I  would  di&  Mr. 
Fisher^  where  is  Dick  Derwent?'^ 


estella's  husband. 


51 


She  asked  the  question  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly,  that 
ihe  old  man  started  back. 

"  Dick  Derwentl"  he  said,  confusedly;  "  what  do  I 
know  of  him?" 

**  You  know  where  he  is,  Mr.  Fisher.  Please  don't  try 
to  deceive  me  now.  He  is  a  prisoner,  in  Royston  Darrell's 
power. " 

**  Hey?"  cried  the  startled  master  of  Fisher's  Folly. 
**  How  do  you  know  that?" 

**  Because  he  has  disappeared.  There  is  a  reward  ofifered 
for  any  news  of  him,  and  no  one  but  you  and  Roysten  Dar- 
rell  can  have  any  object  in  spiriting  him  away.  Ho  disap- 
peared on  the  night  of  the  eleventh — the  night  on  which — " 

She  paused,  shuddering  convulsively  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes!"  said  Peter  Fisher,  hastily.  **  Well, 
Estella,  I  don't  know.  Captain  Darrell — Dare-devil  Dar- 
rell — stops  at  nothing  when  his  blood  is  up.  He  mai/  have 
this  young  fellow  a  prisoner  for  what  I  can  tell.  But,  if 
he  has,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  his  release  depends  upon 
you," 

"Upon  me?" 

"  Consent  to  be  Roysten  Darrell's  wife,  and  from  that 
hour  Richard  Derwent  is  free." 

She  raised  herself  eagerly  on  her  elbow,  and  looked  at 
him. 

**  You  swear  this!"  she  cried.  **  If  I  consent  to  become 
the  wife  of  Captain  Darrell,  Richard  Derwent  shall  be  set 
at  liberty?" 

**  I  swear  it!"  said  Peter  Fisher.  **  Consent,  and  he  is 
a  free  man." 

**  Then  I  consent!"  exclaimed  Estella,  her  eyes  flashing. 
**  I  will  marry  Roysten  Darrell — for  mind,  I  am  not  mar- 
ried to  him  now — on  condition  that,  the  day  before  the 
marriage,  D'ok  Derwent  is  set  at  liberty." 

"It  is  a  bargain!"  said  the  old  man,  eagerly.  **  He 
shall  be  freed,  and  you  shall  have  proof  of  it  under  his  own 
hand.  But,  remember,  if  you  fail  to  keep  your  promiiso 
after—" 

"  I  shall  not  fail!  What  does  it  matter  what  becomes 
of  me  f"  she  answered,  with  a  strange  laugh.  **  I  would 
do  more  than  that  to  set  Diok  at  liberty.  Dear  old  Dick!" 
she  said,  softly,  "  he  loved  me — the  only  being  on  earth 


i 


i ;  i  -i! 


%:: 


i 


':! 


m '' 


19 


estella's  hushand. 


who  cv'or  did.  It  is  tho  least  I  can  do  to  sacrifice  myself 
that  ho  may  escape." 

"  Thuii  this  is  settled?*'  asked  the  old  man,  his  little, 
greedy  eyes  gleaming.  **  You  will  remarry  Koysten  Dar- 
rell,  ill  liie  presence  of  witnesses,  on  condiLion  that  he  lib- 
erates Richard  Derwent?  And  you  swear  not  to  deceive 
us — not  to  fail?** 

*'  I  swear!  Keep  your  part  of  tho  compact,  and  I  shall 
keep  mine.     I  will  marry  Koyston  Darrell.  ** 

Straiigw  fire  this  in  her  eye — strange  energy  this  in  her 
voice.  But  Peter  Fisher  is  blind  and  deaf,  and  only  knows 
that  the  summit  of  his  wishes  is  won. 

They  KJiake  hands  over  it,  and  he  leaves  her  and  hobbles 
back  to  his  room,  rubbing  his  palms  and  chuckling  hoarsely. 

And  Eslella,  left  alone,  turns  her  face  to  the  wall  and 
broods  darkly,  and  never  closes  an  eye  the  long  night 
through. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    HAND    OF    FATE. 

The  sun  was  setting — a  glorious  summer  sunset — on  the 
sea.  Estella  Mallory  sat  alone  in  her  room,  alone  by  the 
window,  and  looked  with  dreary,  listless  eyes  at  the  glori- 
ous sunburst  in  the  west  flooding  earth  and  sea  with  crim- 
Bon  glory.  Little  pools  amid  the  marshes  turned  to  pools 
of  blood.  Tho  soft  evening  wind  came  freshly  in,  and  the 
fishermen's  boats,  glorified  in  the  radiant  sunset,  flashed 
ovei-  the  sparkling  waves. 

The  girl  sat  idly,  her  thin  hands  folded,  the  large  brown 
eyes  strangely  dull  and  weary. 

"  Will  I  ever  see  it  like  this  again?"  she  thought.  **  Am 
I  looking  at  the  beautifnl  sunset  for  the  last,  last  time?  Is 
there  a  heaven  beyond  that  gorgeous  sky,  and  do  they  know 
how  miserable  and  friendless  I  am,  I  wonder?  In  all  this 
wide  earth  is  there  another  lost,  lost  creature  like  me?" 

There  was  a  letter  lying  on  her  lap — a  letter  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Richard  Derwent,  received  within  the  hour. 

She  took  it  up,  and  xAii  over  its  iQW  brief  lines  for  the 
dozenth  time: 

"  Dear  Estella, — They  have  told  me  all— they  have 
set  me  free.     I  owe  my  liberty  to  you^  and  you  have  my 


estella's  iiusuand. 


■inoere  thanks.  In  a  day  or  two  I  will  bo  at  Fishor's  Folly, 
hoping  and  trusting  to  see  you.  Until  then,  dearest  Essie, 
farewell.  Kichakd  Dekwent.  " 


\ 


There  was  no  date  to  this  scant  note,  but  the  writing 
was  surely  DicK  Derwcnt's  familiar  chirography. 

No  suspicion  entered  the  girl's  earnest,  truthful  mind 
that  this  note,  and  that  other  given  her  by  the  butcher's 
boy,  were  Roysten  Darrell's  clover  forgeries. 

'*  They  have  not  told  him  of  what  is  to  take  place  to- 
morrow night,  then,*'  the  girl  thought — *'  my  marriage. 
Well,  bettor  so — he  will  know  all  soon  enough.  And  he 
will  be  sorry,  too— poor  Dick!  The  only  one  in  all  the 
world  to  be  sorry  for  Estella.'* 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Before  she  could  speak, 
it  was  opened,  and  Carlotta,  the  nurse,  stood  before  her. 

**  Captain  Darrell  is  down-stairs,  Miss  Mallory,  and 
wishes  to  see  you.'* 

Estella  arose  instantly.  An  imperceptible  shudder  crept 
over  her,  and  her  face  turned  a  shade  paler,  but  she  never 
hesif  <ted.  She  went  straight  down-stairs,  and  into  the 
dreury  parlor,  where  Peter  Fisher  and  the  captain  of  the 
**  Raven  "  sat. 

**  Ah,  Estella,  how  are  you?"  said  Captain  Darrell,  com- 
ing forward  coolly  with  outstretched  hands.  "  Glad  to 
see  you  about  again,  and  more  than  glad  to  hear  the  news 
Mr.  Fisher  has  to  tell.  I  don't  bear  any  malice,  my  little 
girl,  as  I  told  you  once  before,  but  it's  high  time  you  list- 
ened to  reason.  I'll  make  you  a  capital  husband,  and 
your  life  will  be  one  long  dream  of  bliss  on  board  the 
*  Raven.'" 

The  girl  shrunk  back,  turning  paler  than  before,  and 
drew  away,  with  a  shiver,  from  his  extended  hand. 

**  You  won't,  won't  you?"  said  Captain  Darrell. 
"  Rather  hard  on  a  fellow,  on  the  eve  of  his  wedding.  I 
hope  you  won't  flinch  from  the  ceremony  also,  when  the 
time  comes." 

**  No,"  said  Estella,  speaking  with  an  eftort.  **  I  shall 
not  Spare  me  until  then.  Captain  Darrell.  I  will  keep 
my  word." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it!    You  got  that  young  chap's  note?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  didn't  tell  him  ajbout  that  little  aSair  of  ours  to-mor- 


! 

r 

If 

i 

ij'. 

( 
J 

t! 


.      H 


! 


pi , 


,'> 


'T 


i;^ 


I  ■ 


!i  ! 


i  I 


U 


estella's  husband. 


row  night,  you  se« — what  was  the  use?    He'll  be  here  t« 
see  you  in  a  day  or  two,  I  dare  say,  and  will  find  you  gone/' 
"  Yes,"  said  Estella,  in  a  low,  strange  voice,  "he  will 
find  me  gone." 

"  "i  ou  will  be  ready  to-morrow  evening,  by  eight  o'clock. 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Jacobs,  of  Rockledge,  is  coming  to  tie 
the  Gordian  knot,  and  half  a  dozen  of  fiueads  with  him. 
Before  morning,  the  *  Raven  '  weighs  anchor,  and  bears 
off  Roysten  Darrell  and  his  bonny  bride  to  fairer  lands. 
Trust  me,  Estella,  we'll  have  a  free  life  and  a  merry  one, 
and  all  the  ink-smudged  printers  this  side  the  Styx  may  go 
hang!" 

Estella  listened,  cold  and  pale. 

**  May  I  go  now?"  she  asked.  "If  you  have  nothing 
more  to  say,  Captain  Darrell,  I  should  like  to  return  to 
my  rcom." 

**  You're  in  a  deuce  of  a  hurry.  But  go,  if  you  want 
to,  and  try  and  recover  your  spirits  and  your  re  ^  cheeks  by 
to-morrow  night.  You  are  whiter  than  the  foam  of  the 
sea." 

She  bowed  slightly  and  left  the  room,  going  straight  to 
her  own.  A  strange,  dull  gleam  burned  in  the  brown 
eyes;  the  pale  lips  were  set  with  resolute  compression. 

"  It  is  easier  to  die,"  she  thought,  slowly — "  it  is  easier 
to  die  at  once.  I  should  go  mad  and  jump  over  the  ves- 
sel's side  before  I  had  spent  one  day  with  that  man.  Yes, 
Boysten  Darrell,  I  will  fulfill  my  compact,  and  then — ' ' 

She  looked  out,  with  a  tearless,  rigid  face,  at  the  dark- 
ening sky,  at  the  wide  sea.  Twilight  was  falling,  gemmed 
with  stars,  and  the  evening  wind  sighed  mournfully  over 
the  dreary  marshes  and  n:3adows. 

With  a  long,  weary  breath,  the  girl  laid  her  head  against 
the  cool  glass,  and  loo'  .ed  up  at  the  starlit  canopy. 

**  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest,"  she  thought — "  will  such  a  sinner  as  I  am 
ever  enter  that  blissful  land?" 

It  grew  dark.  She  sat  there  moveless  until  the  door 
opened  and  Carlotta  entered  with  a  light. 

"  Time  you  were  in  bed.  Miss  Mallory,"  said  the  young 
nurse.  "It  is  past  your  usual  hour,  and  you  will  catch 
cold  in  the  draught  of  that  window. " 

She  rose  immediately,  with  a  prompt  obedience  that  wm 


bstella's  husband. 


55 


9f 


H 


ti 


quite  a  new  feature  in  her  character,  and  began  slowly  to 
undress. 

Are  you  going  to  bed,  too,  Oarlotta?"  she  asked. 
In  half  an  hour.  Miss  Mallory.     Mr.  Fisher  objects  to 
our  burning  his  candles.'' 

She  began  to  prepare  her  bed  as  she  spoke.  Since  her 
coming  she  had  always  slept  in  her  patient's  room,  on  the 
old-fashioned  lounge. 

**  Has  Captain  Darrell  gone?"  inquired  Estella. 

**  I  have  just  let  him  oat,  miss." 

Estella  asked  no  more  questions;  she  went  to  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep. 

Carlotta  arranged  her  couch — literally  her  couch — set 
the  room  in  order,  disrobed,  blew  out  the  light,  and  fol- 
lowed her  example. 

An  hour  passed — two — three.  The  old  house  was  very 
still — only  the  complaining  sea  wind,  and  the  racing  of  the 
rats  overhead,  were  to  be  heard.  Carlotta's  regular  breath- 
ing betokened  peaceful  slumber,  but  Estella  lay,  with  wide- 
open,  glittering  eyes,  waiting — waiting! 

A  loud-voiced  clock  down-stairs  struck  twelve.  As  the 
last  stroke  died  away,  she  softly  rose,  drew  on  her  stockings, 
wrapped  herself  in  an  old  morning-drese,  crossed  the  room 
softly,  and  bent  above  the  nurse. 

"  Sound  asleep,"  the  girl  thought.  *'  Now  or  never  is 
my  time.  Shall  I  light  the  candle?  No — 1  can  find  my 
way  in  the  dark." 

it  was  not  quite  dark;  the  starlight  lighted  the  room. 
From  her  table  Estella  took  a  small  medicine  bottle,  capa- 
ble of  holding  two  ounces,  and,  grasping  it  tightly,  tiptoed 
to  the  door,  opened  it  gently  and  passed  out. 

The  old  door  creaked  weirdly,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
old  doors  to  do  at  dead  of  night.  Carlotta  was  the  lightest 
of  sleepers— would  the  noise  arouse  her?  No;  all  remained 
Btill. 

She  turned  and  descended  the  stairs.  They,  too,  creaked, 
as  though  bent  on  betraying  her.  The  lower  passage  was 
in  deepest  darkness,  but  she  groped  her  way  along,  without 
noise,  to  the  door  of  Peter  Fisher's  sleeping-room.  With 
her  hand  on  the  handle  she  paused.  Was  he  asleep?  Yes 
— regular  and  sonorous  came  his  loud  snores — she  might 
enter  without  fear. 

She  tamed  the  look  and  went  in.    The  old  man  lay 


t 


I 

J: 


^  ? 


i 


56 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAJrn- 


sleeping  as  soundly  as  though  evil  consciences  were  fables, 
locking  ugly  and  grim  in  the  pallid  light. 

One  glance  sufficed  to  tell  her  no  noise  she  was  likely  to 
make  would  awake  him.  She  crossed  the  room  softly,  and 
paused  before  a  table  upon  which  stood  a  medicine-chesL 

It  was  not  locked.  She  lifted  the  lid,  peeped  among  the 
bottles,  drew  forth  a  large  one,  after  some  searching,  filled 
with  a  dark  liquid,  and  labeled  **  Laudanum — Poison." 

As  she  did  so,  a  slight  noise,  like  the  rustling  of  a  wom- 
an's dress  in  the  passage,  made  her  start.  She  paused  to 
listen,  but  all  was  still. 

"  Only  the  wind,'*  she  thought,  "  or  a  rat." 

She  drew  the  stopper  out  of  the  bottle  and  nearly  filled 
her  own  vial.  Her  hand  shook,  and  she  spilled  the  liquid, 
and  the  face,  on  which  the  starlight  shone,  was  deathly  pale. 

She  replaced  the  bottle,  closed  the  chest,  stole  to  the 
door,  shut  it  noiselessly,  and,  with  the  vial  still  tightly 
grasped,  slowly  made  her  way  upstairs,  and  back  to  her  own 
chamber.  There  lay  Carlotta,  her  dark  eyes  sealed  in 
sleep. 

**  Safe,"  whispered  Estella,  laying  her  hand  upon  her 
throbbing  heart.  **  What  would  become  of  me  if  I  had 
failed?  I  can  defy  you  now^  Eoysten  Darrelll"  with  a 
strange  smile.  "  This  little  bottle  is  stronger  than  you. 
I  will  keep  my  word,  but  a  darker  bridegroom  will  claim 
your  bride!" 

She  hid  it  away,  and  went  back  to  bed.  And  scarcely 
had  her  head  touched  the  pillow,  when  sleep  took  her,  and 
wrapped  her  i>i  merciful  unconsciousness. 

It  was  late  when  she  awoke.  Carlotta  was  moving  si- 
lently about  the  room,  and  her  breakfast  lay  spread  upon 
a  tray. 

*'  Your  wedding-day.  Miss  Mallory,"  the  nurse  said,  with 
Ji  strange  smile.     "  High  time  to  get  up.*' 

Her  wedding-day! 

Estella  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment,  growing  cold 
as  ice  in  the  warm  June  air.  Only  for  a  moment,  then 
she  arose,  pale  and  impassive,  her  young  face  set  and  rigid 
as  marble. 

It  seemed  very  easy  to  die  in  comparison  to  life  with  the 
man  she  hated  and  loathed,  and  no  fear  of  the  dread  here- 
after held  her  back. 

The  day  passed — the  hours  dragged  on.     They  were 


ESTELLA  S    HUSBAND. 


57 


mercif  a]  enough  to  leave  her  alone.  They  brought  her 
her  meals,  but  she  tasted  nothing.  Eating  and  drinking 
were  nothing  to  her  now.  Hidden  in  her  bosom  lay  the 
yial — her  one  remaining  hope. 

The  twilight  fell.  Again  the  sun  had  gone  down  red  into 
the  sea — glorious  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  tell.  Again 
the  silver  stars  swung  out,  and  a  pale,  young  sickle  moon 
gleamed  amoug  them.  Again  Estella  sat  and  watched 
them — for  the  last  time! 

As  the  daylight  faded  entirely  out,  Carlotta  entered,  her 
arms  full  of  white  garments,  that  gleamed  ghostily  in  the 
gloom. 

**  It  is  time  you  were  dressing  for  your  bridal,  Miss  Mal- 
lory,"  she  said.  **  Here  are  your  clothes,  and  I  have  come 
to  help  you  to  dress.'* 

In  what  a  strange,  ringing  tone  she  spoke!  And  when 
she  lighted  the  caudle,  what  a  strange,  streaming  fire  there 
was  in  her  black  eyes!  what  a  hot,  fierce  glow  on  her  sal- 
low cheeks!  Even  Estella  noticed  it  in  that  supreme  mo- 
ment. 

**  flow  oddly  you  look,  Carlotta!"  she  said.  **  Is  there 
anything  the  matter?'* 

Carlotta  laughed — a  weird,  mirthless  laugh. 

**  Only  the  excitement  of  a  wedding.  Such  things  al- 
ways throw  me  into  a  fever.  Come,  it  is  past  seven.  The 
clergyman  and  the  guests  are  in  the  parlor;  the  bridegroom 
will  be  here  presently,  and  his  bride  must  not  keep  him 
waiting." 

She  took  forcible  possession  of  the  girl,  combed  out  her 
fair,  brown  hair,  and  let  it  hang  in  a  rippling  shower  of 
waves  and  curls  over  her  shoulders. 

Then  she  arranged  the  dress — a  white  muslin  robe,  the 
work  of  her  own  hands — a  simple  blonde  veil,  edged  with 
lace,  and  wreathed  with  orange-bl  assoms. 

"1  made  all  myself,"  said  Carlotta.  *'Look  in  the 
glass,  my  pretty  bride,  and  praise  my  skill  as  a  seam- 
stress.   Roysten  Darrell  will  be  proud  of  his  bride  to-night. " 

Again  she  laughed — that  hard,  mirthless  laugh — and 
turned  the  girl  to  the  little  mirror.  White  as  a  vision — 
white  dress,  white  veil,  white  face,  white  flowers — &h.n 
looked  like  a  corpse  tricked  out  in  bridal  gear. 

'*  There  never  was  so  pale  a  bride,"  said  Carlotta;  "  but 
brides  are  always  pale.      A  three-months'    trip  in   the 


':n 


r 
I 


58 


estella's  husband. 


! 


*  Baven,'  with  Captain  Darrell,  will  bring  back  jour  lost 
roses. " 

Estella  turned  away  from  the  glass. 

**  C*irlotta,"  she  said,  **  I  have  eaten  nothing  all  day. 
I  feel  sick  and  faiiit.  Will  you  fetch  me  some  wine  and 
a  glass — a  largr  glass?" 

A  strange  request  for  a  bride.  But  Carlotfca  turned  to 
go  at  once. 

*'  Hark!''  she  said,  as  she  opened  the  door,  "  hear 
that?" 

A  sounding  step,  firm  and  heavy,  crossed  the  lower  hall; 
a  deep,  melodious  bass  voice  rolled  out  aaiong  less  sonor- 
ous tones. 

"  Captain  Darrell,"  she  said.     *'  The  bridegroom  has 


>f 


come. 

She  flitted  away  with  the  words,  returning  in  a  mo- 
ment with  a  bottle  of  port  wine  and  a  goblet. 

**  Thanks!"  said  Estella,  calmly.  "  Leave  it  on  the 
tablcp  Cariotta,  and  give  me  ten  minutes  alone." 

Carlotta  obeyed. 

Estella  secured  the  door,  and  drew  from  her  bosom  the 
vial  of  laudanum. 

**  There  is  enough  here  for  the  strongest  man  alive," 
she  thought;  "  more  than  enough  for  me!" 

But  she  emptied  it  all  into  the  goblet,  nevertheless,  with 
a  steady  hand.  It  filled  it  about  one  fourth.  Then  she 
took  the  wine-bottle  and  replenished  it  to  the  top.  Still, 
with  a  steady  hand,  she  lifted  it  up. 

"  And  this  is  death!"  she  thought — **  the  fabled  water 
of  Lethe!  This  brown  drink  ends  all  the  miseries  of  life, 
and  sets  me  free!" 

She  raised  it  to  her  lips.  But  at  the  cold  touch  of  the 
glass  the  strong  young  life  within  her  leaped  up  in  fierce 
refusal.  She  sat  it  down,  untasted,  trembling  for  the  first 
time.  At  the  same  instant  there  came  a  soft  knock  at  the 
door. 

**  It  is  I — Carlotta!  Your  uncle  wishes  to  see  you  most 
particularly,  and  at  once,  in  his  room." 

Estella  could  hear  her  flitting  away.  Again  she  lifted 
the  goblet — again  some  invisible  force  pushed  the  fatal 
draught  away. 

''  I  will  wait  uctil  I  come  back,"  she  thought,  with  a 


\ 


).f 


estella's  husband. 


Sf 


siok  shudder  of  repulsion.     **  I  will  hear  what  he  has  t« 
say." 

She  replaced  it  on  the  table,  unfastened  the  door,  and 
glided  down  to  Peter  Fisher's  room. 

if  ♦  ♦  >ie  9H  >l«  Ht 

In  the  parlor  the  few  guests  were  assembled — the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Jacobs  among  them.  Silence  and  constraint 
reigned;  every  one  felt  there  was  something  strange  and 
abnormal  about  this  wedding.  Roysten  Darrell  waited  a 
few  minutes,  yawned  loudly  in  their  faces,  turned  abruptly, 
and  stalked  out. 

*'  I'll  see  Oarlotta,"  he  thought.  "  I  feel  more  uneasy 
about  her  than  1  do  about  the  other  one.  She's  a  very 
devil  when  her  blood's  up. " 

He  ascended  the  stairs  in  search  of  her.  But  the  rooms 
into  which  he  looked  were  all  empty.  Estella'b  came  last 
— he  recognized  it  at  once — but  it,  too,  was  deserted. 

**  She's  with  the  old  man,  I  suppose.  What's  that  on 
the  table — wine?  Upon  my  honor,  the  little  girl  knows 
how  to  prime  herself  for  her  part!  I'll  try  your  port,  my 
dear,  and  wait  here  for  your  reappearance.  It  mayn't  be 
quite  de  rigueur,  but  ceremony  be  blowed!" 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  coolly  took  up  the 
goblet  of  poisoned  wine. 

"  Here  s  to  your  very  good  health,  my  pretty  bride,  and 
to  your  jolly  bridegroom!" 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  drained  it  to  the  bottom. 
The  last  mouthful  he  spat  out  with  a  wty  face. 

'*Bah!"  he  said,  "  it's  not  fit  for  pigs!  Logwood  and 
red  ink!" 

He  took  out  a  cigar,  lighted  it  hastily,  and  began  to 
smoke.  Still  the  minutes  flew  by,  and  no  one  came.  The 
dock  down-stairs  struck  eight. 

*'  The  fatal  hour!"  thought  Roysten  Darrell.  **  I  won* 
der  Where's  the  bride?" 

As  if  his  thought  had  evoked  her,  the  white  figure  cam« 
flying  up  the  stairs,  pausing  on  the  threshold  in  blank 
amaze  at  sight  of  Roys*^en  Darrell.  Then,  quick  as  light- 
ning, her  eyes  flashed  upon  the  goblet.     It  was  empty! 

She  understood  all.  She  paused  before  him,  her  blood 
turning  to  ice. 

*'  Come  in,  my  dear,  come  m!"  cried  Captain  Darrell. 
^'  I  have  no  business  here,  I  know;  but  it  looked  cosy,  and 


i\ 


.  f 


V  ■  ■ 


fa 

.1,1 
I 


•}\  n 


6C 


estella's  husband. 


' ' 


I  I* 


III  'I 


your  wine  looked  tempting.  I  took  a  chair  and  helped 
myself." 

"  Helped  yourself!"  Estella  repeated,  mechanically. 

**  Drank  your  glass  of  wine,  my  dear,  and  beastly  stuff 
it  is!  I'll  give  you  better  vintage  on  board  the  *  Raven.' 
Come,  it  is  i  lie  time.     Take  my  arm,  and  let  us  go  down. " 

Helplessly,  she  obeyed — numb  with  terror.  As  they 
turned  to  descend,  they  met  Carlotta  face  to  face.  She, 
too,  had  heard  Roysten  Darrell's  last  words. 

"  You  drank  Estella's  wine?"  she  asked,  in  a  strange, 
metallic  voice. 

**  Yes;  what  difference  does  it  make  to  you  9  There's 
plenty  left,  such  as  it  is.  Come  along,  Carlotta,  and  be 
m  at  the  death!" 

In  at  the  death!  Ominous  phrase!  Already  the  poison 
was  beginning  its  work — already  a  dull,  sick  torpor  was 
stealing  over  the  strong  man. 

"  1  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said, 
impatiently.  '*  I  am  turning  as  sick  as  a  dog,  and  I  feel 
half  asleep." 

There  was  no  reply.  Frozen  with  terror — speechless, 
paralyzed — Estella  allowed  herself  to  be  led  in.  Already 
the  victim  staggered  as  he  walked 

The  lights,  the  faces  swam  in  a  red  mist  before  the  bride 
as  they  entered  the  parlor.  What  had  she  done — what 
had  she  done?  She  stood  there  with  a  ghastly  face — wait- 
ing— waiting. 

They  took  their  places — the  clergyman  opened  his  book. 

A  leaden  pallor  was  creeping  over  the  ruddy  face  of 
Captain  Darrell;  his  eyes  were  growing  dark  and  dull. 

The  first  words  were  spoken;  but  ere  the  ceremony  had 
well  begun,  the  bridegroom  reeled  like  a  falling  pine,  and 
dropped  like  a  stone  at  their  feet. 

A  long,  wild  shriek  rang  through  the  house.  Then 
Estella  turned  and  fled  frantically  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

carlotta's  warning. 

In  a  moment  all  was  wildest  confusion.  No  one  heeded 
the  flying  bride — all  gathered  around  the  fallen  bride^ 
groom.     They  lifted  him  up,  ghastly  as  a  dead  man. 


estella's  husband. 


61 


>9 


<( 


(« 


**  He  is  poisoned!"  cried  a  clear  voice — **  he  hiis  swal- 
lowed a  dose  of  laudanum  large  enough  to  kill  the  strongest 
man  alive!    Se^i  for  the  doctor  it  once!" 

It  was  Carlotta  who  spoke^  her  dark  face  ashen  with 
terror. 

The  physician  who  had  attended  Estella  chanced  to  be 
one  of  tne  guests.     He  stepped  forward  at  once. 

How  do  yov  know  that?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

What  does  that  matter,  so  long  as  1  know  it?"  cried 
Carlotta,  her  black  eyes  flashing.  *'  I  tell  you  he  drank 
over  an  ounce  and  a  half  of  laudanum!" 

**  Did  he  take  it  purposely?  Did  he  intend  to  commit 
suicide?"  inquired  the  startled  physician. 

**  No;  he  took  it  in  a  mistake.  Why  don't  you  do  some- 
thing for  him?"  she  broke  out  passionately.  *'  While  you 
talk  and  gape,  you  will  let  him  die  at  your  feet. " 

*'  It  may  be  too  late,  nevertheless.  Who  will  riuo  to 
Eockledge  and  fetch  me  a  stomach-pump?" 

There  were  two  or  three  eager  volunteers.  The  doctor 
calmly  selected  one. 

**  My  horse  is  at  your  service — don't  spare  him.  Ride 
likft  the  wind — lifo  or  death  depend  on  it." 

The  messenger  departed.  They  bore  the  drugged  man 
to  Mr.  Fisher's  own  room  and  laid  him  upon  the  bed. 
Then,  in  the  lull  which  followed,  and  in  which  nothing  was 
done,  the  old  man  thought  of  his  ward. 

"  Where  is  Estella?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

"  She  has  fled  to  her  own  room, "answered  Carlotta,  in 
a  strangely  calm  voice.     **  I  am  going  to  her  there." 

"  Does  she— " 

Peter  Fisher  stopped  in  sudden  horror  at  his  own  thought, 
and  looked  at  the  dark  face  of  the  creolo  nurse.  But  that; 
colorless  face  told  nothing. 

*'  Go  to  her!"  he  said,  hurriedly.  **  See  what  she  is 
about,  Carlotta.    In  the  confuson,  she  may  try  to  escape." 

Without  a  word,  Carlotta  obeyed.  She  went  straight  to 
the  bride's  room,  her  face  set  in  that  locked,  sfony  calm. 

The  door  stood  wide,  and  there,  crouched  in  the  furthest 
corner — pale,  panting,  with  wild,  dilated  eyes,  and  the 
look  of  a  stag  at  bay — stood  Estella. 

The  Creole  paused  before  her,  shut  the  door,  and  black 
eyeb  and  brown  met  in  one  long,  fixed  look. 


I 


n 
I 


'N' 


il 


istella's  husband. 


**  Well,"  said  CarjV>tta,  at  last,  **  you  have  done  your 
work.  I  hope  you  are  satisfied?  Your  viotim  lies  lifeless 
below.  Poisoner!  murderess!  is  your  hatred  satisfied  at 
last?" 

The  white  hands  flew  up  and  covered  the  whiter  face. 
She  uttered  a  long,  wailing  cry  of  despair. 

**  I  never  meant  it — I  never  meant  it!  Oh,  Carlotta,  as 
Heaven  hears  me,  I  never  meant  it  for  him  !  1  mixed  the 
poisoned  wine  for  myself.  How  was  1  to  know  he  would 
enter  my  room  and  drink  it?" 

"  I  believe  you,''  said  Carlotta,  coldly;  **  and,  hut  that 
1  believe  jou,  I  would  have  denounced  you  on  the  spot. 
Do  you  think  1  did  not  know  as  well  as  yourself  what  you 
intended  to  do?  Why,  you  little  imbecile,  1  followed  jou 
last  night — I  saw  you  steal  the  laudanum,  and  I  knew  m  a 
moment  how  you  intended  your  bridal  to  end.  When  you 
asked  me  for  the  wine,  an  hour  ago,  do  you  suppose  I  could 
not  surmise  what  it  was  for?  Ah,  bah!  I  read  you  like  a 
book,  and  you  had  not  the  courage  to  drink  it,  little  cow- 
ard, when  mixed.  You  left  it  until  the  last  moment — you 
went  down  to  the  old  man's  room,  and  he,  Roysten  Darrell, 
came  in  here  in  your  absence,  and  drank  the  poisoned 
draught.  I  knew  it  all — I  knew  it  when  you  left  this  room 
together,  and  still  1  did  not  speak.  Do  you  wish  to  know 
why?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Estella,  recoiling  at  the  suppressed  fury  in 
her  voice  and  face. 

""  Because  1  love  Mm.  Because  I  worship  him  with  a 
mad  idolatry  that  you      j<r  little  milk  and  water  school- 

firl,  can  never  dream  of  i  Because  I  am  his  wife — do  you 
ear — his  wedded  wife  !  And  I  would  sooner  see  him  dead 
at  my  feet  than  even  for  an  hour  the  husband  of  another!  I 
love  him  as  only  we  women  of  the  passionate  South  ever 
love;  and  he  must  have  been  blind  and  mad  to  think  for  a 
moment  I  could  consent  to  his  scheme.  Why,  you  poor 
little  wretch!  1  had  the  poisoned  drug  ready  for  you  myself, 
ever  since  I  came  here,  and  the  hour  that  saw  you  Ms 
bride  would  have  seen  you  die  by  my  hand.  You  tried  to 
save  me  the  trouble,  and  failed.  But  better  as  it  is — a 
thousand  times  better  as  it  is  than  to  behold  him  wedded  t« 
another!  In  death,  at  least,  he  is  mine!" 

Estella  hid  her  poor,  pale  face,  with  convulsive  sobs. 


1^ 


m 


im 


)) 


m 


iUSTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


"  It  is  dreadful — it  is  horrible!  Oh,  Carlotta!  cannoth* 
Ing  be  doDe?    What  will  become  of  me  if  he  dies?*' 

**  If  he  dies  1  will  denounce  you  as  his  murderess!  You, 
Estella  Mallory,  as  surely  as  we  stand  here,  if  he  dies,  I 
will  denounce  you,  and  you  shall  sutler  for  your  crime." 

**  But  1  never  meant  it!*'  cried  the  girl,  in  wild  affright. 
**  Carlotta,  you  know  1  never  meant  it!" 

**  That  is  nothing,"  Carlotta  replied,  with  somber  dig- 
nity; "  the  deed  is  done.  In  a  few  hours  the  result  wnl 
be  known.  Those  few  hours  are  yours,  to  do  with  as  you 
will.    In  your  place  /  should  not  wait  to  be  arrested." 

Estella  gazed  at  her  breathlessly. 

**  Carlotta,  what  do  you  mean?" 

*'  Little  fool!"  said  Carlotta,  with  a  look  of  dark  scorn, 
**  have  you  no  brains?  Look  at  those  windows,  not  eight 
feet  off  the  ground;  look  at  those  sheets  and  quilts,  easily 
torn  and  knotted  together,  and  ask  yourself  w'  at  I  mean! 
The  world  is  wide,  life  is  sweet;  the  meanest  reptile  that 
ever  crawled  will  make  an  effoit  for  its  life." 

Still  Estella  sat  and  gazed  at  her  in  breathless  wonder. 

What  manner  of  creature  was  this  who  one  instant  threat^ 
ened  to  denounce  and  deliver  her  up  to  justice  and  the  next 
showed  her  the  means  of  escape? 

Carlotta  answered  that  look. 

"  Still  far  wide!"  she  said,  with  a  hard  laugh.  "  Still 
in  a  trance  of  amaze!  Listen  to  me,  little  idiot,  and  un- 
derstand, if  you  can.  The  dose  was  too  large;  they  have 
sent  for  a  stomach-pump.  Hoysten  Darrell,  amid  ten 
chances  of  death,  has  one  of  life.  If  he  lives  he  will  com- 
prehend all,  and  will  all  the  more  doggedly  insist  on  your 
marrying  him.  I  know  the  man — oppose  him,  and  his 
purpose  grows  as  adamant.  If  he  dies,  and  you  are  to  be 
found,  I  will  denounce  you.  Life  or  death  for  him  brings 
equal  danger  to  you;  but  if  he  lives,  and  you  escape,  he 
returns  to  me.  I  have  warned  you.  Now  do  as  you 
please. " 

Without  giving  the  girl  a  chance  to  reply,  Carlotta  turned 
abruptly  and  quitted  the  room. 

For  upward  of  five  minutes,  Estella  remained  like  one 
in  a  trance.  Then  the  full  danger  of  her  situation  burst 
upon  her;  the  full  meaning  of  Carlotta's  warning  came 
home;  the  full  force  of  her  hint  to  escape  mfi^jQ  itseU  uu" 
derstood. 


!      t 


nl 


64 


EBTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


'  'I 


Yea,  lite  was  sweet  while  one  chance  of  liberty  remained. 
She  would  take  her  at  her  word — she  would  fly  I 

She  sprung  up,  a  now  being,  resolute  and  ea^er.  Her 
first  act  was  to  secure  the  door;  the  next  to  raise  one  of 
the  windows  and  look  out.  It  was  not  so  very  high,  and 
she,  who  had  been  ready  to  take  her  own  life  little  better 
than  aii  hour  ago,  might  surely  rir.k  broken  limbs  now. 

The  night  favored  her — calm,  warm,  starlight.  West- 
ward spread  the  gray  majesty  of  the  sea.  Eastward  lay  the 
lonely  marshes  and  deserted,  winding  road.  Southward 
slept  the  quiet  town  of  Kockledge,  its  lights  looking  faint 
and  far  away. 

"  And  Dick  is  there!"  Estella  thought.  "  Oh,  if  he  were 
only  here  to  help  me  now!" 

She  rapidly  began  her  preparations.  Every  second  was 
precious  beyond  price.  She  took  off  the  white  dress,  the 
veil,  the  wreath,  the  gloves  and  slippers,  and  attired  herself 
for  her  journey.  A  suit  of  gray  merino  had  been  provided 
for  wearing  on  board  the  "Raven."  She  put  this  on, 
wrapping  herself  in  a  warm  shawl.  Strong  walking-shoes, 
and  a  little  gray  straw  hat,  with  a  bright  wing,  completed 
her  costume. 

In  all,  it  had  not  taken  her  ten  minutes  to  dress.  The 
only  part  of  her  bridal  trappings  she  retained  was  a  little 
gold  chain  and  cross  and  a  couple  of  rings — one  of  plain 
gold,  the  other  set  with  pearls. 

The  simple  jewels  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and  ^ 
hers  of  right;  but  Peter  Fisher  had  never  yielded  them  up 
until  to-night. 

**  I  will  keep  them,'"  :he  thought.  "  I  have  no  money, 
and  if  the  worst  comc>  to  the  worst,  I  can  sell  them  for 
food.  If  my  mother  wtio  alive  she  would  not  keep  them 
and  see  me  starve." 

Was  there  anything  elsi?  She  looked  around  the  room. 
Yes,  her  book!  It,  too,  hi  :  been  her  mother's,  and  it  con- 
tained a  lock  of  that  dead  u;  other's  hair. 

She  took  it  off  the  table— i^  little  volume,  bound  in  pur- 
ple velvet,  with  tarnished  cli  ^ps  and  corners,  containing  a 
text  of  Scripture  for  every  da    in  the  year. 

It  opened  at  the  fly-leaf.  Uhere  was  writing  upon  it — 
writing  pale  and  faded — that  turned  the  tide  of  Estella's 
destiny.     She  looked  at  the  dim,  pale  letters: 


pur- 
nga 

it— 
Vila's 


/ 


estella's  husband. 

'•  IIklen  Mali.ouy, 

To  her  beloved  sister,  Estella, 

No.  —  Poplar  St.,  Chelsea,  Mass., 

March  18,  18-      " 


63 


** 


The  date  was  three  years  before  Estella  was  born.  The 
faded  sorawl  flashed  upon  her  now  like  a  burst  of  sudden 
light. 

**  Why  not  go  there,"  she  thought,  **  to  my  mother's 
sister — to  my  aunt?  She  is  still  alive — still  in  the  same 
place — the  old  homestead.  Mr.  Fisher  told  me  so  to-night, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  write  to  her  of  my  marriage.  For 
my  mother's  sake — the  sister  she  loved — she  will  surely 
befriend  me.** 

Her  eyes  lighted,  her  cheeks  flushed.  New  hope  kindled 
in  her  hopeless  heart.  What  did  it  matter,  in  that  instant, 
that  she  was  penniless — that  she  knew  about  as  much  the 
way  to  Chelsea  as  to  Copenhagen?  Hopeful  sixteen  saw 
light  and  liberty  at  last. 

She  hid  the  precious  volume  in  her  bosom  with  her  cross 
and  chain,  and  went  to  work  upon  her  ladder. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  sheets,  strong  and  coarse  in 
material,  were  torn  in  strips,  knotted  firmly  together, 
fasteued  within  to  a  strong  hook  in  the  wall,  and  flung  out 
of  the  window  to  the  ground. 

All  was  now  complete.  She  took  no  bundle — she  would 
hamper  herself  with  nothing  that  could  obstruct  her  flight. 

She  paused,  pale  and  breathless,  a  moment  to  listen. 
Down-stairs  she  could  hear  the  tramping  of  feet,  the  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro;  upstairs  she  could  kear  the  noisy  scampering 
of  the  rats. 

She  clasppd  her  hands,  and  looked  up  at  the  star-gemmed 
sky. 

**  Save  me,  Oi.,  Lord!"  she  prayed.  **  Help  a  helpless 
orphan  girl  escaping  from  her  foes!" 

With  that  earnest,  half-breathed  prayer,  she  made  her 
way  through  the  window  and  laid  hold  of  her  ladder. 

If  it  should  break!  But  her  weight  was  light — the  re- 
sistance was  little.  She  was  on  the  ground  almost  in  an 
instant — free! 

She  turned  and  fled,  running  breathlessly,  headlong, 
over  fields  and  marshes.     She  reached  the  high-road;  sIm 

8 


I  •! 


it 


V 


i 


11 


i 


m 


96 


xbtella's  husband. 


turned  her  face  regolutely  from  Rookledge,  in  the  opposiU 
direction. 

*'  Brooklyn  is  but  seventy  miles  ofi6>'*  she  thought.  **  The 
first  step  to  Chelsea  is  to  reach  Brooklyn.  Good-bye,  dear 
old  Dick  I    We  may  never  meet  again. " 

One  brief,  backward  glance  at  the  wide  sea,  at  the  lone- 
some marshes,  at  the  long,  low,  gloomy  old  house  where 
she  had  sutlered  so  much — at  the  darker  "  Haven,"  lying, 
like  a  huge  bird  of  ill-omen  as  it  was,  in  its  sheltered  cove 
'—at  the  distant  lights  of  Bockledge,  twinkling  like  pale 
stars — and  then  off  and  away  like  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
estella's  flight. 

Away  along  the  deserted  country  road,  past  swelling 
Weadows  and  lonely  fields,  past  dark  and  silent  farm- 
houses, Estella  flew.  She  ran  until  she  could  run  no 
longer;  then,  panting  and  exhausted,  she  paused,  nearly  a 
mile  from  Fisher's  Folly,  and  leaned  against  a  way-side  tree 
to  draw  breath. 

She  was  out  of  sight  of  the  sea  and  the  marshes.  Wind- 
ing and  winding  away,  until  it  lost  itself  in  a  starry  belt  of 
horizon,  went  the  winding,  dusty  road — the  road  that  led  to 
liberty. 

It  was  almost  midnight  now,  and  very  still.     The  inex- 

Sressible  hush  of  night  and  slumber  lay  over  the  quiet  earth, 
'nly  the  bright  stars  kept  vigil,  and  a  pale,  young  cres- 
cent moon  sailed  slowly  up  the  purple  vault  through  a  sea 
of  misty  white  clouds. 

"  Have  they  missed  me  yet,  1  wonder?'^  thought  Estella. 
**  Will  that  strange  creature,  Carlotta,  tell  them  of  my 
flight,  and  set  them  on  my  track?  And  is  Boysten  DarreU 
to  live  or  die?    Oh,  if  1  only  knew  that  /" 

She  started  up  and  hurried  on  again,  like  the  hunted  creat- 
ure she  was.  On,  and  on,  and  on,  that  long,  interminable 
road,  feeling  neither  c'aintness  nor  fatigue,  in  her  burning 
eagerness  to  escape. 

Bhe  met  no  one.  She  had  the  long,  lonely  road  all  to 
herself— poor,  friendless  waif,  adrift  on  the  world! 

Morning  was  dawning.  Slowly  the  stars  began  to  pale 
—slowly  the  moon  waxed  dim  and  melted  away — slowly  the 


'  i; 


EBTELLA  S    IIUSBANI^ 


67 


first  pink  cloud  of  the  sunrise  blushed  in  the  eastern  iky. 
brighter  and  brighter  grew  those  lines  of  orimson  glimmer; 
one  by  one  the  birds  awoke  and  began  twittering  drowsily 
in  their  nests.  The  cattle,  asleep  in  the  way-side  fieldi^, 
lifted  their  dull  heads.  Signs  of  Viw  everywhere  awoke  with 
the  awakening  day.  Farm-houses  and  farm-yards  were 
astir;  the  houses  were  growing  more  and  more  numerous, 
and  Estella  felt  she  was  drawing  near  a  village. 

**  It  must  be  H ,''  she  thought,  '*  and  1  am  nearly 

ten  miles  from  Fisher's  F'olly.  Sixty  long,  long  miles  yet 
before  Brooklyn  is  reachocl." 

She  sighed  wearily.  These  ton  miles  were  beginning  to 
tell  upon  one  unused  to  lengthy  walks.  Her  limbs  ached, 
her  feet  were  sore,  and  she  felt  faint  and  sick  from  inani- 
tion and  want  of  food. 

The  few  early  pedestrians  she  met  stared  at  her,  and 
looked  back  ai;  the  pale  and  jaded  face  and  weary  walk. 

To  avoid  them,  and  obtain  a  brief  rest,  she  turned  into 
X  field,  through  which  a  sparkling  brook  ran,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  yielding  grass. 

'*  How  soft  it  feels!  she  murmured;  "  how  cool,  how 
tender!    Mother  Nature — the  only  mother  I  ever  knew." 

She  removed  her  hat,  bathed  her  face  and  hands,  and 
smoothed  her  hair.  Next  she  took  oft  her  shoes  and  stock « 
ings,  bathed  her  blistered  feet,  and  arose,  feeling  infinitely 
rested  and  refreshed. 

**  If  I  only  had  something  to  eat!*'  she  thoiight  '*  I  fee} 
as  though  1  could  walk  all  day. " 

She  had  half  a  dozen  pennies  in  her  pocket.  She  counted 
over  her  scanty  hoard  with  wistful  eyes. 

**  Poor  Dick!  the  last  of  his  last  gifts — a  bright  silver  half 
dollar,"  she  murmured.  **  At  least  it  will  buy  me  a  bun 
for  breakfast.  1  will  go  into  the  village  and  find  out  if  1 
am  on  the  right  road  to  Brooklyn. " 

She  walk^  briskly  along,  relieved  and  refreshed  by  her 
bath,  and  reached  the  straggling  outskirts  of  the  village  as 
the  church  clock  was  striking  seven.  The  bustle  and  stir 
of  the  new  day  had  begun — shops  were  opening,  house 
doors  stood  wide,  many  people  passed  her  up  and  down  the 
dusty  street.  She  stepped  into  the  first  bake-shop  she 
met,  and  laid  down  her  handful  of  pennies. 

'VTen  cents'  worth  of  buns,  please,"  she  said  to  a  fat 
woman  behind  the  counter. 


68 


E8TELLi.'s    HUSBAKP. 


The  woman  did  them  up  in  paper  and  handed  them  t« 
her,  looking  curiously  at  the  pale  young  face. 

**  You're  a  stranger  here,  am't  you?'°  she  asked,  famil- 
iarly.    *'  I  know  most  every  one  in  H ,  but  1  don't 

know  you,'* 

"  Yes,"  said  Estella,  **  I'm  a  stranger.  I'm  going  to 
Brooklyn,  if  I  can  find  the  way. " 

**  Find  the  way!  Why,  Lor'!  you  don't  mean  to  walk 
it?" 

"  Yer;  it  is  straight  on,  isn't  it?" 

"  It's  straight  on,  sure  enough,"  said  the  woman,  with 

a  laugh;  **  but  it's  rather  a  piece — sixty  milet:  from  H . 

Hadn't  you  better  take  the  stage?    It  passes  at  noon." 

**  No,  Jiank  you,"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  sigh.  **  1 
must  walk.     Good-morniDg. " 

She  passed  out  of  the  shop  into  the  sunlit  morning. 
Sixty  miles  to  Brooklyn,  and  Brooklyn  only  the  first  stage 
of  that  weary  journey  to  Chelsea.  What  a  wild-goose  chase 
it  looked!  Wandering  on  an  unknown  journey  to  a  strange 
land,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  in  search  of  a  relative  she  had 
never  seen,  who  might  be  dead  for  what  she  knew;  or,  if 
alive  and  still  at  the  old  place,  a  relative  who  might  scorn- 
fully refuse  to  acknowledge  the  wandering  vagrant's  claim. 
Her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom  like  lead. 

"  It  is  all  useless,  all  in  vain!"  she  thought,  with  a  de- 
spairing sob.  "  1  had  better  lie  down  by  the  road-side  and 
die.  What  will  become  of  me?  Why  was  I  ever  born, 
since  I  have  no  home,  no  parents,  no  friends  no  place 
in  the  wide  world  at  all?" 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Estella  had  thought  it  a 
fine  thing  to  be  let  loose  upon  the  world  to  shift  for  one's 
self,  to  bo  a  heroine,  a  second  Jane  Eyre,  adrift  on  the 
moors — but  not  now.  The  bitter  reality  of  that  most 
bitter  fact,  that  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  a  lost  waif, 
wrecked  upon  the  world,  came  home  to  her  with  its  full 
despair. 

But  she  wandered  on.  Sixteen  j^ears  will  not  readily 
lie  down  and  die,  while  one  glimmer  of  hope  remains.  She 
wandered  on,  eating  her  buns  by  the  way  once  the  village 
was  left  behind,  and  the  dusty  stretch  of  road  lay  long  and 
bright  before  her  once  more,  losing  itself  in  the  sunlit  sky. 

**  I  used  to  wish  I  had  been  born  a  gypsy,"  thought  Es- 
tella, with  a  hysterical  little  laugh  at  her  past  folly,  '^  free 


^STELLA'S    HUSBAir». 


69 


n 


and  happy,  to  stroll  over  the  world,  and  sleep  under  waving 
trees,  and  tell  fortunes  in  a  scarlet  cloak  and  blue  petti- 
coat. 1  am  getting  my  wish  now,  and  I  don't  seem  to  care 
for  it;  and  yet  if  I  had  company  1  thinly  1  should  prefer  it 
to  life  at  Fisher's  Folly.  If  Dick  were  only  with  me! 
But  even  to  be  alone — to  be  like  this — is  a  hundred  times 
better  than  being  the  wife  of  Roysten  Darrell." 

The  day  wore  on — the  sun  sailed  higher — noon  came, 
scorching,  burning.  Estella  was  growing  unutterably 
weary,  and  yet  she  had  hardly  walked  six  miles.  She  had 
reached  and  passed  a  second  village  larger  than  the  first, 
but  she  had  not  stopped — every  hour  of  delay  was  an  hour 
lost.  She  had  plodded  wearily  on,  hot  and  dusty,  sun- 
burned and  tired,  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  faint.  The  quiet 
high-road  was  again  reached,  with  swelling  meadows^ 
spreading  endlessly  away  on  either  hand,  green  and  cooL 
Still  on,  still  on,  only  pausing  once  beside  a  sparkling  way- 
side well  for  a  long,  long  draught;  then  again  on,  eating 
the  last  of  her  buns  as  she  walked.     The  stage-coach  from 

H to  Brooklyn  rattled  past  her  in  the  early  afternoon, 

filled  with  passengers,  and,  ah,  with  what  wistful,  hopeless 
eyes  the  girl  looked  at  the  lumbering  conveyance  bowl- 
ing along  so  swiftly  to  the  goal  she  longed  to  gain  I 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close — her  long  day  of 
ceaseless  walking  was  coming  to  an  end.  Lengthy  shadows 
fell  athwart  the  road;  the  western  sky  was  growing  lumi- 
nous with  the  splendor  of  the  sinking  sun;  farm-laborers 
passed  her  on  their  homeward  way.  She  heeded  nothing 
of  it  all.  Her  head  and  eyes  ached  until  she  seemed  grow- 
ing blind;  her  blistered  feet  were  like  leaden  weights;  every 
bone  in  her  body  seemed  a  separate  agony.  Her  throat 
felt  parched  and  dry;  the  solid  ground  seemed  heaving  be- 
neath her  feet;  she  felt  she  must  drop  down  and  lie  where 
she  fell.  Fatigue  and  want  of  food  were  rapidly  telling 
on  this  poor  little  wandering  waif. 

As  she  staggered  on,  half  blind  with  pain  and  weariness, 
an  open  barn-door  caught  her  eye.  It  was  nearly  filled 
with  hay.  No  one  seemed  to  be  near.  It  looked  cool 
and  inviting  She  tottered  rather  than  walked  forward, 
entered,  made  her  way  to  the  darkest  and  remotest  corner, 
sunk  down  in  a  heap,  and  in  five  minutes  was  sleeping  m 
though  she  were  dead. 

That  merciful  sleep  wrapped  her  for  hours.    Once,  long 


ro 


BSTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


after  midnight,  she  av^oke;  all  was  dark,  and  the  nlencd 
of  the  grave  reigned.  Too  weary  to  feel  either  fear  or 
loneliness  in  that  strange  and  lonely  place,  she  turned  over, 
and  slumber  took  her  again  in  its  blessed  embrace. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  when,  for  the  second  time, 
she  awoke.  She  arose  on  her  elbow,  drowsy  and  confused, 
and  with  an  aching  sense  of  unutterable  weariness  from 
head  to  foot.  Those  poor  little  feet  felt  sore  and  blistered, 
her  joints  felt  stiff  and  numb,  and  she  put  back  her  tossed 
hair,  and  gazed  around,  with  a  dull  sense  of  pain  and  be- 
vtrilQeriTipnt 

"  Where  am  I?"  Estella  thought.    "  What  place  is  this?" 

And  then  memory  came  back  like  a  flash,  and  she  remem- 
bered all.  She  arose  stiffly,  cramped  and  unrefreshed, 
from  her  hard  bed,  smoothed  her  hair,  shook  out  her  dress, 
and,  kneeling  down,  said  her  simple  morning  prayer. 

**  Take  care  of  me,  oh,  Lordr'  prayed  poor  Estella, 
•*  for  in  all  this  cruel  world  there  is  no  one  to  care  whether 
I  live  or  die. " 

She  walked  to  the  door.  If  she  could  only  pass  out,  as 
she  had  entered,  unobserved!    But  it  was  not  to  be. 

Face  to  face,  on  the  threshold,  she  encountered  a  stal- 
wart young  man.     Both  recoiled  and  stood  staring. 

**  The — deuce!"  said  the  young  man.    **  Who  are  you?" 

Estella  stood  trembling — the  pale  picture  of  guilt.  The 
young  man  eyed  her  in  surprise  and  suspicion. 

"  Who  are  you?"  he  reiterated.  **  And  what  are  you 
doing  here?" 

**  Nothing,  please,"  the  girl  faltered.  "  I  have  done  no 
harm — indeed,  indeed,  1  have  not!  1  only  slept  on  the  hay 
last  night. " 

**  Slept  on  the  hay!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  been 
all  night  in  the  barn?" 

"  Yes,  please,"  still  more  falteringly.  '*  1  was  very 
tired-,  I  had  walked  all  day;  1  could  go  no  further,  and 
so  I — I  saw  the  door  open,  and  went  in  and  lay  down,  and 
fell  asleep  before  I  knew  it.  Don't  be  angry,  please — I 
don't  think  I  have  done  any  harm." 

**  Good  Lord!"  cried  the  young  farmerj  **  listen  to  her! 
No  harm!  Why,  you'll  get  your  death,  whoever  you  are! 
A  young  girl  sleeping  in  such  a  place  as  that!  Why  the 
dickens  didn't  you  come  to  the  house  and  ask  mother  to 
let  you  stay  there?" 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


?1 


Estella  lifted  her  eyes  for  the  first  time — those  pathetic, 
liouid  brown  eyes.  It  was  a  rough  face,  this  young  farm- 
er s,  but  a  good  one,  and  two  kindly  gray  eyes  stared  at  her 
in  frank  wonder.  Then  she  looked  down  again,  and  a 
loTely,  flitting  color  rose  in  her  pale  face. 

**  I  had  no  money,"  she  said,  simply.  "  How  could  I 
«sk?'' 

*'  Money  be — darned!  We  don't  keep  an  inn.  What's 
your  name?' ' 

"  Estella  Mallory." 

**  And  where  do  you  come  from?" 

'*  From  Rockledge,"  answered  the  girl,  in  whose  truthful 
nature  deception  was  unknown. 

"Whew!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  walked  all 
that?*' 

*' Yes,  sir." 

**  And  where  are  you  going,  pray?" 

**  To  Brooklyn,  if  I  can.  I  am  trying  to  find  my 
friends. " 

'*  Have  you  friends  in  Brooklyn?" 

**  I  have  friends  further  on.  Please  let  me  pass — it  is 
time  I  was  going." 

'*  Not  just  yet,"  said  the  young  man,  resolutely;  **  not 
without  your  breakfast.     Here — come  along  with  me!" 

He  led  the  way  in  long  strides  without  more  ado.  Es- 
tella followed  him  across  the  road,  to  a  commodious  farm- 
house, through  whose  open  door  she  could  see  a  bounteous 
brefikfast-table  spread. 

A  comfortable-looking  matron  met  them  at  the  door, 
and  gazed  wonderingly  at  her  son's  pale  companion. 

"  Here,  mother,"  said  the  young  man,  **  give  this  girl 
her  breakfast.  She's  going  on  to  Brooklyn,  and — didn  1 1 
hear  you  say  Deacon  Miles  was  going  up  to  Brooklyn  to- 
day?" 

*'  Yes;  but  he's  gone,  I  reckon." 

"  I'll  step  across  and  see.  Go  in,  my  girl,  and  eat  your 
breakfast.  You  look  as  though  you  needed  it.  Make  her 
comfortable,  mother,  and  don't  bother  her  with  questions 
until  I  come  back. " 

He  strode  off,  whistling.  The  woman  looked  at  her 
son's  protegee  from  head  to  foot,  but  not  unkindly,  while 
poor  Estella  hung  her  head,  mortified  and  ashamed. 


m 
* 

I 


ii 


^.  ^' 


If  f| 


n 


bstella's  husbakd. 


**  Come  in,"  said  the  woman,  gently.  **  You  do  look 
beat  out.     Here,  nit  down,  and  eat  as  much  as  you  can." 

She  placed  a  chair  at  the  table,  and  poured  out  a  cup  of 
fragrant  coffee.  She  asked  no  questions,  and  Estella  wai 
ft  great  deal  too  hungry  to  stand  upon  ceremony. 

She  eat  down  at  once,  and  eat  and  drank  with  keenest 
relish.  Before  she  had  finished  her  meal  the  young  man 
was  back. 

**  It's  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  to  his  mother. 
'*  The  deacon's  going,  and  he'll  make  room  for  her.  Don't 
hurry  yourself,  you  know;  but,  as  soon  as  you've  finished, 
come  along  with  me. " 

**  I  have  finished,  thank  you,"  said  Estella,  rising;  *'  and 
I  am  very,  very  much  obliged." 

"Not  a  bit!    Come  along." 

She  followed  him  out,  down  the  road,  and  paused  with 
4im  before  a  house  at  whose  gate  a  horse  and  wagon  stood. 
A  fat,  good-humored-looking  man  sat  in  the  Front  seat, 
folding  the  reins. 

**  Here's  the  girl,  deacon,"  said  the  young  farmer.  **  She 
iui't  quite  a  ton  weight     Now,  my  lassie,  pile  in." 

**  But—"  Estella  faintly  began. 

"*  All  right!  all  right!  exclaimed  the  farmer,  impa- 
tiently. **  The  deacon's  going  to  Brooklyn,  and  he's  gomg 
to  give  you  a  lift.     In  with  you!    My  time's  precious." 

He  hustled  her  into  the  back  seat,  and  before  the  be- 
wildered Estella  could  fully  realize  it,  the  light  wagon  was 
rattling  merrily  along  over  the  sunlit  country  road. 

She  gave  a  backward  glance,  and  saw  her  sunburned 
champion  trudging  swiftly  back  to  his  breakfast. 

**  That's  John  Styles,  my  dear,"  quoth  the  deacon, 
*'  and  the  best  young  man  I  ever  knew.  How  lucky  he 
chanced  to  come  across  you  this  morning!  Slept  all  night 
in  his  hay>barn,  he  tells  me,  and  meant  to  walk  all  the 
way  to  Brooklyn.  You  never  could  do  it,  my  tl^/r — 
never!    What  are  you  leaving  home  for?" 

"  I  have  no  home,"  Estella  said,  mournfully — "  no 
rightful  home.  The  person  I  lived  with  at  Rockledge  was 
very  unkind  to  me — so  unkind  that  I  had  to  run  away." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

*'  Bad,  bttd,  bad!"  he  said  *'  A  young  girl  could  hai-dly 
do  worse.     And  where  are  you  going?" 

"  I  have  JO.  aunt  in  Chelsea,  Massachusetts;  I  am  going 


bstella's  husband. 


73 


to  her  if  I  can  ever  find  the  way.  Perhaps  you  know,  sir? 
Will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  I  must  do  when  I  get  to  Brook- 
lyn?'*' 

The  trembling  eagerness  of  the  question — the  tears  in 
the  large,  earnest  eyes — touched  the  old  man. 

**  You  poor,  unfortunate  baby  I"  he  said.  **  It's  a 
shame  and  a  sin  to  have  any  one  so  youiig  and  so  pretty 
tospiug  loose  about  the  world  like  this.  How  will  you  get 
rhere?  Why,  you'll  cross  over  to  New  York,  and  go  down 
to  the  pier  and  buy  your  ticket,  and  get  on  board  the 
steamer.  That's  what  you'll  do.  The  boat  leaves  at  six. 
You  can  start  this  evening." 

*'  Thank  you,  sir.  And  will  the  steamer  take  me  to 
Boston?" 

"  Not  dir  3t  Never  mind;  I'll  fix  that.  Have  you 
any  money?" 

"  No,  sir,"  blushing  hotly;  "  but  I  have  a  gold  chain 
and  cross.  They  were  my  mother's.  I  meant  to  sell 
them  to  pay  my  way." 

**Poorcnild!  Well,  don't  talk  about  it  now.  Try  and 
go  to  sleep  again.  You  look  fitter  for  a  sick-bed  than 
traveling  about.  I'll  see  that  everything's  right.  I  have 
a  girl  of  my  own — ^your  age,  too,  but  not  half  so  pretty— 
and  I  know  how  I  should  feel  if  she  were  knocking  about 
like  you.  Go  to  sleep,  and  I'll  send  yon  to  Chelsea  all 
right." 

The  girl  obeyed,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind.  Her  hea^I 
drooped  heavily  against  the  hard  back  of  the  wagon,  and 
sleep,  the  pitiful,  took  her  once  more,  and  folded  her  in 
peaceful  unconsciousness.  The  sudden  stoppage  of  the 
wagon  aroused  her.  She  started  up,  broad  awake,  and 
found  herself  alone  in  the  vehicle.  A  rough-looking  boy 
held  the  horse's  head,  and  they  stood  outside  the  door  of  a 
public-house.  It  was  past  noon^  and  the  day  had  changed 
while  she  sslept.  Dark  clouds  scudded  over  the  sky,  and 
the  damp,  rising  wind  gave  promise  of  speedy  rain. 

"  Where  is  he?"  asked  Estella,  terrified.  **  Where  has 
he  gone?" 

*'  He's  here,  my  dear,"  replied  the  cheery  voice  of  the 
deacon,  appearing  at  the  door.  **  Come,  it's  two  o'clock, 
and  high  time  you  had  some  dinner.     Get  down. " 

**  But  I  am  not  hungry,  thank  you." 

**  No  matter — ^you  will  be,  and  there  may  be  no  time  t« 


In 

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f 
f 


m 


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i: 


'i.y 


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i 


74 


I 


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,*  I   I 


i    i 


estella'3  husband. 


spare  when  we  roach  Brooklyn.     Qet  down  at  onoe,  and 
'.ake  a  cup  of  tea. " 

He  was  not  to  be  refused.  He  assisted  her  out,  and  led 
her  into  th?  house,  and  into  a  room  where  a  dinner-table 
was  spread,  and  a  woman  presidmg. 

"  N'>v,%  then,"  said  the  deacon,  **  the  sooner  you  let  ue 
have  dinner,  Mrs.  Beers,  the  better." 

Dinner  was  served  immediately — beefsteak  and  potatoes, 
with  tea  and  apple-tart  to  follow.  Estella  scarcely  touched 
anything;  her  head  throbbed,  her  limbs  ached — every  joint 
was  sore  and  stiff.  She  was  glad  when  it  was  over,  and 
they  were  baci<:  in  the  wagon. 

**  How  long  before  we  reach  Brooklyn?"  she  timidly 
inquired. 

In  two  hours  or  less.     1^11  take  you  straight  to  the  city, 
and  see  you  safely  on  board  the  boat. " 

**  But  the  trouble.  You  are  very,  very  kind;  but  it  is 
too  much  to  ask." 

**  You  haven't  asked,  my  dear,"  said  the  good-humored 
old  deacon.  **  I  do  it  for  my  own  peace  of  mind.  Why, 
that  pale  face  of  yours  would  haunt  me  the  rest  of  my 
life-time  if  I  deserted  you  in  that  big,  bad  city.  And  be- 
sides, Where's  the  use  of  being  a  professed  Christian  and  a 
deacon  in  the  church  if  we  don't  act  up  to  it?  Don't  you 
fret,  my  little  girl;  I'll  see  you  safely  through." 

There  was  no  reply — Estella's  heart  was  too  full  for 
words.  Ah!  all  the  world  were  not  Peter  Fishers  and  Roy« 
sten  Darrells,  and  the  Father  of  the  orphan  had  heard  her 
prayer,  and  taken  care  of  His  helpless  child. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  darkening  fast.  The  threatening 
rain  would  fall  before  night;  and  Estella  shivered  as  the 
damp  wind  struck  her.  Would  she  be  really  safe  this 
night,  or  would  she  be  houseless  and  adrift  in  the  storm? 

They  reached  Brooklyn  before  five,  and  Estella's  head 
reeled  with  the  magnitude  and  bustle  of  the  City  of 
Churches.  The  deacon  did  not  stop;  they  crossed  the 
Fulton  Ferry  at  once,  and  plunged  into  the  noise,  and 
bustle,  and  uproar  of  mighty  New  York. 

**  What  do  you  think  of  this,  my  deav?"  shouted  her 
companion,  above  the  din.  **  Goes  a  leetie  ahead  of  Rock- 
ledge,  doesn't  it?" 

But  the  girl  was  incapable  of  reply.     Pale  and  f  rightened« 


II 


estella's  husband. 


75 


she  gazed  around  her,  deafened,  stunned.  The  old  man 
langhoil  at  her  terrified  face. 

• '  I  don't  think  you  like  it  much  better  than  I  do  myself, 
and  yet  I  suppose  these  people  prefer  these  horrid  streets 
to  the  peaceful  country.  They're  to  be  pitied,  I  think; 
but  it  takes  all  sorts  of  folks  to  make  a  world." 

The  country  gig  rattled  up  West  Street  to  the  particular 

Eier  he  wanted.  Calling  a  boy  to  take  charge  of  the  ve- 
icle,  he  helped  Estella  out,  left  her  standing  in  a  quiet  spot, 
and  approached  the  ticket-ofhce.  In  a  moment  he  was 
back  beside  her. 

'*  Come  on  board  now,''  he  said.  *'  Here's  your  ticket 
for  Boston.  Not  a  word — this  is  opposition  time,  and  it 
only  cost  a  trifle.     This  way. " 

He  led  her  to  the  ladies'  cabin,  at  first  sight  of  which 
abode  of  splendor  she  literally  gasped  for  breath.  A 
great  many  ladies  were  moving  about  or  seated,  and  the 
deacon  took  his  charge  to  a  vacant  sofa,  and  placed  her 
there. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  said,  "  I've  done  all  for  you  I  ca7i  do, 
and  1  don^t  think  you'll  haunt  me  for  neglecting  my  duty. 
I'll  speak  to  the  stewardess  about  you,  and  she'll  find  you  a 
berth.  At  six  to-morrow  morning  you'll  reach  Newport; 
there  you'll  take  the  cars  for  Boston.  Once  you  get  to 
Boston,  ask  the  first  policeman  vou  meet  to  put  you  in 
a  car  for  Chelsea — you  understand?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"  Tell  the  conductor  of  the  car  where  you  want  to  get 
out.     Have  you  your  aunt's  street  and  number?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

'*  You're  all  right,  then.  Now,  good-bye  and  God  blesg 
you!" 

He  gave  her  hand  a  squeeze  and  hurried  away,  and  once 
more  the  desolate  wanderer  was  alone.  She  covered  her 
face,  and  her  tears  fell. 

"How  good  he  is!"  she  thought;  "and  I  may  never 
see  him  again!  Ah,  what  a  happy  girl  his  daughter  must 
be!" 

There  was  little  time  for  tears,  little  chance  for  loneli- 
ness. As  the  deacon  had  said,  it  was  opposition  time,  and 
the  boat  was  literally  crowded  with  passengers. 

The  pale  little  country-girl  sat  and  gazed  around  her, 
v^ith  wide,  wondering  brown  eyes,  at  the  numbers  and  gay 


'lir 

I 


I 


I 


1.1 
If 


7« 


estella's  husband. 


i 


ii 


dresses  of  the  ladies.  How  much  at  home  they  all  seemed, 
flitting  hither  and  thither,  laughing,  chatting,  and  she — 
she  was  literal] v  afraid  to  stir! 

The  boat  moved  off  from  her  moorings.  The  summer 
day  had  closed,  wet  and  windy,  the  ram  dashed  against 
the  cabin- windows,  and  the  long  gale  sighed  over  the 
Sound.  Bat  within  ths  ladies'  cabin  all  was  brightness 
and  plonsant  bustle.  The  lamps  were  lighted,  the  ladies 
tripped  about,  gentlemen  came  and  went,  stewardesses  sped 
swiftly  hither  and  thither  with  refreshments — all  was  new 
ard  novt^'. 

iat  (ttella's  head  throbbed  with  that  dull,  torturing 
pai  -  h  limbs^still  ached.  In  the  cosy  heat  of  the  cabin 
she  .   (    ch'iW  to  the  bone. 

Her  head  ^  ik  heavily  against  the  back  of  the  sofa— her 
burning  eyes  closed.  Again  sleep,  that  was  almost  stupor, 
took  her,  and  everything  around  her  was  blotted  out. 

A  sound  shaking  awoke  her.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
sat  up,  and  stared  vacantly  into  the  face  of  a  young 
mulatto  woman. 

**  Newport  I"  said  the  woman,  sharply.  "  The  boat 
will  touch  the  wharf  in  five  minutes.     Wake  up!*' 

She  hurried  away.  Estella  started  to  her  feet,  still  be- 
wildered. 

Ladies,  wrapped  warmly  up,  and  laden  with  bags  and 
baskets,  hurried  by  her  and  out  to  the  gangway.  Mechan- 
ically, the  girl  arose  and  followed  the  crowd.  Not  a  mo- 
ment too  soon— they  were  already  at  their  moorings,  and 
the  rush  for  the  cars  had  begun. 

Carried  along,  resistless — whither,  she  knew  not,  still 
only  half  awake — she  found  herself  on  the  wharf,  pushed 
on  board  the  cars,  amid  a  din  and  tumult  that  might  have 
shamed  Babel.  A  vacant  seat,  by  some  fortunate  chance, 
was  near.  She  dropped  into  it,  her  breath  quite  taken 
away. 

**  You  look  as  though  you  were  half  asleep  still,"  said  a 
voice  »,t  her  elbcw — a  laughing  voice.  "  It  iv  rather  con- 
f  usinf'',  this  being  routed  out  of  bed  in  the  gray  and  dismal 
dawr.     Are  you  alone?" 

Eiitella  looked  at  the  speaker — a  handsome,  well-dressed 
young  woman,  who  occupied  the  inside  of  the  seat,  and 
who  was  regarding  her  curiously. 

'*  Am  I  alone?"  repeated  Estella,  a  little  dazed.     **  Yes, 


estella's  husband. 


7T 


all  alone.     Please,  where  are  we?  and  where  are  we  going 
nowf 

**  We  are  at  Newport,  and  we  are  going  to  Boston,  I 
hope,  if  nothing  happens.     Do  you  want  to  go  to  Boston?" 

**  I  want  to  go  to  Chelsea?" 

"  Chelsea!  Oh,  you're  all  right,  then,  and  v-  yy  fortu- 
nate in  having  secured  a  seat.  How  the  cars  ai.  crowded, 
to  be  sure — half  the  poor  wretches  will  have  to  stand. 
That  comes  of  oppo-itiou  lines  and  cheap  traveling.  Do 
you  belong  to  Chelsea?" 

"  No.     Rockledge,  New  York. " 

**Ah!  I  don't  know  it.  You're  sick,  ain't  you?  You 
do  look  dreadful  miserable!" 

Estella  pressed  her  hand  to  her  burning  forehead. 
That  ceaseless,  terrible  pain  "s  still  there;  but  this  morn- 
ing she  seemed  to  be  one  l  *iu  arable  pain  from  head  to 
foot. 

**  My  head  aches,"  sh'^  su  d,  confusedly.  **  It  feels  all 
wrong  and  stupid,  somehow  I'm  not  used  to  traveling — 
to  being  exposed.     I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be  ill!" 

Her  companion  drew      )k  a  little,  with  a  look  of  alarm. 

*'  It's  not  catching,  is  ic?  I  thought  you  looked  sick 
when  you  came  on  board  last  night.  It's  not  fever,  or 
small-pox,  or  anything?" 

**  No,"  replied  Estella,  drowsily;  *'  only  I'm  tired,  and 
I  think  I've  caught  cold.  I  ache  all  over,  and  my  heal 
burns.     I  didn't  know  I  was  sick  before." 

And  then  her  voice  died  away,  and  the  poor  head  dropped, 
and  that  dull  stupor  came  over  her  again,  and  she  saw  and 
heard  nothing  distinctly. 

Some  one  came  and  took  her  ticket  and  spoke  to  her, 
and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  noise,  and  a  sickening,  uneasy 
motion  everywhere;  but  nothing  was  real — nothing  was 
distinct.    She  saw  and  heard  as  we  see  and  hear  in  a  dream. 

Presently,  she  was  standing  on  the  platform,  borne  along 
once  more  by  the  crowd.  All  around  her  din  and  tumult, 
uproar  and  confusion.     She  stood  lost,  dazed,  stupefied. 

*'  Do  you  know  the  way  to  Chelsea?  "What  on  earth  ails 
the  child?    Shall  I  put  you  on  a  Chelsea  car?" 

She  lifted  her  heavy  eyes,  and  saw  the  face  of  her  late 
companion — the  lady  of  the  train. 

"Yes,  r^lc^se.     No.  — Poplar  Street." 

She  rt      mbered  the  street  and  number  dimly,  but  sht 


III 

'1 

t 


i(» 


11 


1 


I 
I 

I..  . 


78 


ESTELLA's    HUSIIAND. 


was  incapable  of  further  effort.  The  lady  drew  her  im- 
patiently iilong. 

**  CoLMB  this  way — quick!  I  never  saw  such  a  bewild- 
ered face  in  all  my  life,  and  you're  aH  ill  as  you  can  be. 
Have  you  any  money?" 

**  Yes — no;  I'm  going  to  sell  my  crt)ss.     That  will  take 


ne. 


Gracious  me!  is  the  girl  an  escaped  lunatic?  I  never 
beard  anything  like  this  in  all  my  life.  I'll  put  you  on 
board  the  car,  and  here's  a  dime  to  pay  your  fare.  I  de- 
clare, if  you  have  any  friends,  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
themselves.'' 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Estella,  slowly.  '*  I  ran  away; 
I  am  all  alone." 

Her  companion  eyed  her  with  a  whimsical  mixture  of 
compassion  and  distrust,  but  just  then,  their  particular  car 
appearing,  she  motioned  the  conductor,  with  an  air  of  in- 
tense relief. 

An  instant  later,  and  Estella  was  on  board  and  seated, 
and  the  lady  was  speaking  a  hurried  word  to  the  conductor. 

**  She  is  a  perfect  stranger,  and  utterly  incapable  of  tak- 
ing care  of  herself.  She  wants  to  go  to  No.  —  Poplar 
Street.  Let  her  down  as  near  it  as  possible,  and  direct  her 
which  way  to  go." 

The  man  nodded,  and  the  car  rattled  on.  They  crossed 
the  bridge;  they  rattled  on  again.  Directly  the  car 
stopped,  and  the  conductor  tapped  Estella  on  the  shoulder. 

**  You  get  out  here," he  said;  **  turndown  this  way,  and 
you  are  in  Poplar  Street.  Go  along  up  until  you  come  to 
No.  — ." 

He  helped  her  off,  and  left  her  standing  in  the  street 
She  stood  a  second  and  then  turned  as  he  had  told  her, 
and  walked  into  Poplar  Street. 

Looking  at  the  houses  as  she  walked  along,  she  came  at 
last  to  the  number  she  wanted — a  large,  white  house,  with 
cool,  green  blinds,  and  a  couple  of  green  trees  in  front. 

She  ascended  the  painted  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 
While  she  waited  she  leaned  against  the  door-post  to  keep 
from  falling.  A  strange  dizziness  made  her  head  reel 
and  her  eyes  half  blind  with  the  intensity  of  pain.  A 
drizzling  rain  was  falling,  but  she  never  felt  it;  she  shiv- 
ered in  the  summer  wind  without  knowing  it. 


estella's  husband. 


79 


at 
th 

11. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HELEN    MA  LLOR Y. 

The  door  opened,  after  a  weary  while,  it  eeemed  to  the 
waiter,  and  the  face  of  an  elderly  woman,  framed  in  a 
black  cap,  looked  out. 

**  What  ia  it?*'  a  sharp  voice  asked. 

Estella  lifted  her  heavy  eyes  by  an  efifort. 

**  Does  Helen  Maliory  live  here?'* 

'*  Helen  Mall  cry  ?*'  repeated  the  woman,  angrily. 
**  Miss  Mallorv  lives  here!  Who  are  you,  with  your 
*  Helen  Maliory?'  *' 

**  I  am  Estella  Maliory." 

The  woman  recoiled  with  a  shrill  cry.  An  instant  she 
stood  spell-bound,  as  it  seemed,  by  that  answer;  then, 
seiaing  the  girl  by  the  arm,  she  drew  her  in. 

*'  For  the  Lord's  sake,  come  in  and  let  me  look  at  you! 
Estella  Maliory!  Here,  sit  down — you  look  fit  to  drop! 
Miss  Helen!  for  goodness  gracious'  sake,  come  here!" 

"  What  is  it,  Norah?"  asked  a  soft  voice — **  what  is  the 
matter?" 

**  Come  here,  for  mercy's  sake,  and  look  at  this  girl! 
She  says  she's  Estella  Mallorv^  and  she's  asking  for  you. 
Come  quick!    She  looks  as  if  she  were  dying." 

Some  one  ran  swiftly  down-stairs,  and  Estella  saw  a  lady 
in  a  gray  silk  dress,  with  pale  face,  and  large,  dark  eyes, 
bending  above  her. 

She  drew  her  little  book,  her  chain  and  cross  from  her 
bosom,  and  held  them  out. 

**  They  were  my  mother's,  and  you  are  my  mother's 
sister.     1  am  very  tired  and  ill,  and — " 

She  said  no  more.     The  floor  heaved— the  wall  spuiL  ' 
She  put  out  her  hands,  blindly,  to  save  herself,  and  NoraL, 
caugnt  her  as  she  fell. 

4:  ♦  ♦  4c  *  4r  ♦ 

**  How  does  she  seem  now,  Norah?" 

**  Better,  miss,  1  think.  She's  had  a  nice,  long  sleep, 
and  I  am  going  to  give  her  her  beef -tea." 

Estella,  waking  from  a  long,  heavy  sleep,  as  it  seemed, 
leard  these  words  dimly.  Some  one  raised  her  L  ad — some 
one  held  a  cup  of  something  to  her  dry  lips. 


I 

%■ 

I?; 


<t 


in 


ao 


estella's  husband. 


Sho  drank,  opening  her  eyes  drowsily  for  a  moment, 
then  sank  back  among  the  pillows  with  a  delicious  senM 
of  rest 

**  Poor  child  1*'  said  the  first  speaker,  compassionately; 
**  how  deathly  white — how  awfully  thin  sho  isl  And  yet, 
Korah,  it  is  her  mother's  face  over  again.  No  one  could 
mistake  Estella's  child." 

The  sick  girl  heard  no  more.  The  deep  sleep  of  con- 
Talescence  came  over  her  and  lulled  her  to  blessed  rest. 

When  she  awoke,  the  noon-day  sun  was  streaming  in 
dazzling  chinks  through  the  closed  blinds.  She  lay  very 
■till,  and  gazed  dreamily  around  her.  It  was  a  large,  cool, 
])lea6ant  chamber,  prettily  furnished — half  bedroom,  half 
sitting-room — and  the  low  white  bed  whereon  she  lay  was 
the  softest  and  most  luxurious  she  had  ever  reposed  on. 

The  woman  Norah  sat  in  a  rocking-chair,  busily  knit- 
ting, and  a  big  gray  cat  nestled  comfortably  at  her  feet 
It  was  such  a  pleasant  picture  of  rest  and  peace  that  tke 
tired  little  wanderer  could  have  Iain  and  looked  forever. 

Slowlv,  very  slowly,  memoir  began  to  drift  back.  Where 
was  sher  what  room  was  thisr  who  was  that  woman? 

She  lay  and  thought,  still  and  motionless.  It  all  came 
back,  little  by  little — Peter  Fisher — Roysten  Darrell — the 
runaway  marriage — that  awful  night  in  the  attic — the  ill- 
ness— Oarlotta — the  poisoned  draught — the  flight— the 
J'onrney.  And  this  was  Helen  Mallory's,  no  doubt,  and 
ler  dead  mother's  sister  had  taken  the  lost  waif  to  her  heart 
and  home. 

And  Eoysten  Darrell — was  he  dead?  and  did  Helen  Mal- 
lory  know?  Would  Mr.  Fisher  guess  whither  she  had  gone, 
and  write  the  terrible  story?  Would  they  come  in  search 
of  her  here,  and  drag  her  forth  to  stand  her  triai  for  mur- 
der? 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot  with  unutterable  dread.  Oh,  what  would  become 
of  her,  if  Eoysten  Darrell  was  dead? 

The  chamber-door  opened  softly — there  was  the  gentle 
rustle  of  a  woman's  dress;  some  one  crossed  the  room 
lightly,  and  bent  above  hei*.  She  lay  quite  still — never 
moving,  nev  er  opening  her  eyes. 

*'  How  is  she,  Norah?''  a  low  voice  asked.  '*  She  if  not 
awake?" 

No,  miss;  she  sleeps  as  somid  and  peaceful  as  a  baby. 


<« 


istella's  husbakd. 


81 


li- 
te. 


poor  lamb!  She'll  wako  up,  clear  and  reasonable  to-day, 
the  doctor  thinks.  Poor  little  soul!  what  she  must  have 
comu  throiij^h!" 

'*  Norali,"  suid  the  soft  voice,  "come  here  and  look 
at  her.  Look  at  that  childish,  innocent  fucu,  unU  tell  me 
if  she  looks  like  a  married  woman?*' 

**  A  married  what?*'  cned  Norah,  in  shrill  horror. 
*'Th&.t  child  married!    Miss  Helen,  what  do  you  mean?" 

*'  Or  a  would-be  murderess?'*  continued  the  soft  voice, 
in  tones  of  suppresseJ  excitement — *'  a  wife  who  has  tried  to 
poison  her  husband?    Tell  me— does  she  look  like  that?" 

'*  Miss  Helen,  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  what  do  yea 
mean?'' 

**  That  olil  man — that  bad,  vindictive  old  man — accuses 
her  0^  being  both.  Norah,  this  morning's  post  has  brought 
an  answer  to  my  letter." 

**  From  Mr.  Peter  Fisher?"  breati.l«^s8ly. 

'*  From  Peter  Fisher — yes!  A  letter  that  is  a  tissue 
of  lies  from'  beginning  to  end.  This  child  has  suiiered  as 
few  girls  of  hor  age  have  ever  suffered,  I  am  convinced. 
Listen,  Norah,  I  will  read  it  to  you.  But  are  you  sure 
she  sleeps?" 

*'  Sure  a?»d  certain,  Miss  Helen.  She  has  never  opened 
her  eyes  since  her  morning  draught.  She  won't  hear  you 
— never  fear." 

Helen  Mai  lory  drew  a  letter  from  her  pocket,  and  began 
to  read  aloud. 

Low  as  the  sweet  voice  was,  the  sick  girl  heard  every 
word. 

"  '  RocKLEDGE,  Avgust  4,  18 — . 

"  *  Miss  Helen  Mallory, — Madame,  your  favor  of 
the  20th  of  July  has  duly  come  to  hand.  Its  receipt  and 
contents  did  not  surprise  me.  I  expected  it.  I  knew, 
when  that  miserable  girl  fled  from  the  home  v;hich  has 
sheltered  her  for  over  sixteen  years,  she  would  fly  to  you. 

**  '  And  now  permit  me  to  rectify  one  or  two  little  mis- 
takes in  your  letter.  You  speak  of  your  niece,  Estella 
Mallory,  There  is  no  such  person.  The  runaway  you  are 
sheltering  is  Mrs.  Roysten  Darrell>  M'ha  has  wickedly  fled 
from  her  home  and  her  husband.  If  that  v/ere  her  only 
crime,  one  might  try  to  forgive  it,  but  she  is  also — 1  tell 
it  with  grief  and  horror — an  attempted  murdartsss!  Before 
she  fled  from  Fisher's  Folly,  dio  tried  to  t;ike  her  hu» 


I! 


In 

II' 

r 


i 

I' 


b/v  kstella's  husband. 

band's  life — she  tried  to  poison  him.  That  she  did  not 
succeed,  no  thanks  is  due  to  her — she  administered  an  over- 
dose. Captain  Roysten  Darrell  has  recovered,  and  has 
quitted  Rock  ledge.  He  is  a  seafaring  man,  and  a  husband 
worthy  a  better  wife.  There  was  no  time  for  him  to  pur- 
sue and  recapture  his  fugitive  bride,  but  he  will  be  back 
here  in  three  or  four  months  at  the  f urtherst,  fully  pre- 
pared to  press  his  rightful  claim.  Let  your  niece,  Estella 
i  )arrell,  deny  these  facts,  if  she  can.  If  you.  Miss  Helen 
Maliory,  choose  to  shelter  a  runaway  wife,  you  can  do  so, 
and  abide  the  consequences  when  her  husband  returns.  If 
she  will  come  back  to  my  protection,  all  will  be  forgiven, 
and  Captain  Darrell,  who  is  iiifatuatedly  fond  of  her,  will 
thankfully  overlook  the  past,  and  take  her  back.  1  re- 
main, madame,  yours  to  command. 

"  Peter  Fisher.'  " 


Miss  Maliory  paused,  very  pale,  and  looked  at  her  old 
servant. 

"  1  have  finished,"  she  said.  '*  What  do  you  think  of 
this  terrible  letter,  Norah?" 

*'  What  you  thought  five  minutes  ago,"  burst  out  Norah, 
indignantly — '*  that  it  is  lies  from  beginning  to  end!  That 
girl  a  wife!  that  girl  a  poisoner!  The  wicked  old  sland- 
erer! 1  wish  I  had  Peter  Fisher  here,  and  my  ten  finger- 
nails sunk  in  his  face!" 

*'Hush!"  said  her  mistress,  starting  up.  *' You  have 
awakened  her!" 

She  hurried  to  the  bed ;  she  had  heard  a  stifled  sob. 

Estella  lay,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  crying  as  she 
had  never  cried  before  in  her  life. 

'*  Oh,  my  dear!  m^  dear!"  exclaimed  Miss  Maliory,  in 
deepest  distress,  '*  I  never  meant  you  to  hear.  1  thought 
you  were  asleep.  My  child,  my  child,  don't  weep  so!  We 
don't  believe  one  word  of  this  bad,  cruel,  lying  letter. " 

The  girl  looked  up,  her  sobs  ceasing  suddenly,  and  the 
sad  brown  eyes  gazed  full  into  the  face  bending  abo  ^e  her 
What  a  kind  face  it  was — so  full,  so  patient,  so  sweet! 

*'  And  yet  it  is  true,"  she  said,  slowly. 

They  were  the  first  words  she  had  spoken. 

Helen  Maliory  recoiled  in  alarm. 

"True!" 
In  the  letter,  not  in  the  spirit.     1  may  be  married  to 


(< 


estella's  husband. 


83 


juglit 
We 

the 
her 


to 


Roysten  Darrell  for  what  I  know.  I  may  have  almost 
poisoned  him.     I  only  know  I  never  meant  it. " 

Miss  Mallory  stood  gazing  upon  her,  shocked,  bewildered. 

"Married  without  knowing  it!  Guilty  of  poisoning 
without  meaning  it!  My  child,  I  don't  understand  you  at 
all.'' 

**  No,"  said  Estella,  mournfully.  *'  How  should  you? 
i  hardly  understand  it  myself.  Dear  lady,  sit  down  beside 
me,  and  let  me  tell  you  all.  I  would  have  told  you  the 
day  I  came  if  I  had  been  able.     But  I  was  ill,  was  I  not?" 

'*  Very  ill,  my  poor  child — like  to  die.  But  that  is  all 
past  now." 

'*  Ah!  better  for  me  perhaps  if  I  had.  How  loiter  is  it 
ago?" 

"  Over  two  weeks.  You  have  had  a  fever,  and  been  de- 
lirious nearly  all  the  time.  You  are  very  weak  still,  and 
must  not  talk  too  much." 

'*  Dear  lady,  it  will  not  hurt  me.  I  will  never  be  at  rest 
again  until  you  know  all  my  sad,  miserable  story.  I  am 
a  very,  very  unfortuuatti  glil.  As  you  said  a  little  while 
ago,  I  have  suffered  as  few  g  rls  of  my  age  ever  suffered 
before.  Mr.  Fisher  has  been  so  merciless  to  me  that  I 
don't  think  I  can  ever  forgive  him." 

'*  I  never  knew  him  when  he  was  anything  else,"  said 
Helen  Mallory.  "  I  only  wDnder — miser  that  he  is — he 
has  burdened  himself  with  you  so  long.  I  wrote  to  him 
repeatedly  to  send  you  to  me;  but,  out  of  pure  contrari- 
ness, I  suppose,  he  always  refused.  And  he  forced  you  into 
marrying  this  Captain  Roysten  Darrell?  But,  oh,  my 
child,  my  baby!  are  you  really,  really  married?" 

'*  No!"  said  Estella,  with  sudden  energy — "  not  in  the 
sight  of  God.  I  am  no  man's  wife,  although  I  have  stood 
up  and  gone  through  the  marriage  ceremony.  I  abhor 
Roysten  Darrell  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  He  is  a 
pirate — a  lawless  outcast — a  murderer!  1  would  die  ten 
thousand  deaths  rather  than  be  his  wife  for  an  hour!" 

And  then  Estella,  slowly  and  brokenly — for  she  was  piti- 
fully weak — told  the  story  of  her  strange  midnight  mar- 
riage, of  her  terrible  mistake. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Dick  Derwent.  Poor  Dick!  I  liked 
him;  he  was  always  good  to  me;  he  was  my  only  friend. 
I  would  have  married  him  to  escape  these  two  cruel  men, 
and  he  would  have  done  his  best  to  make  me  happy,  I 


In 

•till: 

ill*' 
f 


If 


(;:' 


■ri' 


il 


w 


V 


■  i 


84 


estella's  husband. 


know.  But  Roysten  Darrell  overheard,  and  had  him  ab. 
dacted  by  his  lawless,  outcast,  smuggler  crew,  and  came  in 
his  place,  and  took  me  away.  I  don't  know  who  per- 
formed that  mockery  of  marriage,  but  surely  no  minister 
of  the  church  would  be  guilty  of  so  heinous  a  crime.*' 

*'  Did  you  love  this  Dick  Derwent.^"  Helen  Mallory 
asked. 

*'  Love  Dick?  Oh,  no!  But  he  was  very  fond  of  me, 
and  very  good  to  me,  and  I  would  have  done  anything  al- 
most in  my  desperation  to  escape  Roysten  Darrell.  Poor 
Dick!  Who  knows  what  those  bad,  cruel  men  have  made 
him  suffer?" 

*'  And  then,*'  said  Helen,  vividly  interested,  "  what  hap- 
pened when  you  found  out  your  terrible  mistake?'* 

The  sick  girl  shivered  from  head  to  foot  as  she  recalled 
that  horrible  night.  Brokenly  she  told  her  listeners  the 
story  of  her  passionate  refusal  of  Captain  DarreH's  claim — 
of  the  dreadful  hours  of  that  stormy  night  spent  in  the  at- 
tic among  the  rats. 

**  Pitiful  Heaven!"  Helen  Mallory  said,  deathly  pale. 
"  To  think  that  any  human  being  could  torture  a  helpless 
child  in  that  manner!  The  merciless,  horrible  old  man! 
And  then?'* 

Estella  related  the  last  recollection  she  had — of  falling 
senseless  to  the  floor;  of  her  waking  to  find  Carlotta,  her 
nurse. 

She  told  the  pathetic  story  of  that  weary  coming  back 
to  life,  hopeless,  in  despair — of  her  compact  with  Peter 
Fisher. 

**  I  meant  to  kill  myself  when  I  made  it,**  she  said.  **  It 
seemed  easy  to  die.  What  had  I  to  live  for?  And  I 
thought  it  only  right  to  give  my  miserable  life  to  save  Dick. 
I  promised  to  marry  Roysten  Darrell  in  the  presence  of 
witnesses  if  they  would  liberate  poor  Richard,  and  they 
agreed.  But  from  the  moment  I  made  the  promise  I 
meant  to  end  my  life.  Ah!  it  was  wicked  and  dreadful,  I 
know,  but  I  think  I  was  half  mad  with  misery  and  despair. 

I  mixed  the  poison  with  the  wine,  and  Roysten  Darrell 
came  into  the  room  and  drank  it  when  I  was  gone.  I  never 
meant  it;  I  wanted  to  harm  no  one.  I  would  far  rather 
have  died.  I  fled  from  the  house,  in  the  first  confusion, 
and  how  I  ever  got  here  I  don*t  know.  I  think  I  was  ili 
and  delirious  half  the  time.** 


ESTELLA^S    HUSBAND. 


8d 


«( 


The  good  God  guided  you,"  Helen  Mallory  said,  rev- 
erentially. '*  My  poor  child — my  poor,  little,  persecuted 
niece!  Will  such  men  as  these  ever  find  forgiveness,  here 
or  hereafter?  But  1  know  the  reason  of  this  compulsory 
marriage.  I  know  why  Peter  Fisher  tried  to  force  you  into 
hecoming  the  wife  of  his  unprincipled  friend  in  such  mad 
haste." 

Estella  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

**  You  know?"  she  said.  "  Why,  it  has  been  my  great- 
est wonder  all  through.  I  can't  understand  it  at  all. 
Koysten  Darrell  never  cared  for  me,  never  took  the  slight- 
est notice  of  me  before;  and  as  for  Mr.  Fisher,  I  am  cer- 
tain he  never  used  to  consider  me  in  any  way  at  all.  What 
luas  the  reason?" 

*'  The  sudden  discovery  of  your  parentage.  Yes,  my 
child,  you  are  no  longer  the  poor,  dependent  waif,  name- 
less and  fatherless,  an  outcast  in  a  cruel  world,  but  the  ac- 
knowledged daughter  of  a  rich  and  distinguished  nobleman. 
It  sounds  incredible,  does  it  not — wildly  and  romantically 
improbable?    But  it  is  true," 

Estella  lay  and  stared  at  her  in  silent  wonder. 

**  I  wrote  to  Peter  Fisher,"  Helen  Mallory  went  on, 
*'  early  in  May  of  my  discovery,  telling  him  to  break  the 
news  to  you,  giving  him  your  father's  address,  and  the 
promise  of  a  large  reward,  in  that  father's  name,  as  soon 
as  he  would  yield  you  up.  I  know  now  I  was  a  fool  and  a 
spiteful  enemy  not  to  take  your  father  straight  to  Fisher's 
Folly,  to  assert  his  right  and  claim  you  on  the  spot.  But 
I  had  little  love  for  him — little  reftson  to  do  him  a  good 
turn — and  how  was  I  to  know  you  would  suffer  for  my  folly 
and  vindictiveness?  And  Peter  Fisher  never  showed  you 
that  letter?" 

"  Never,"  said  Estella,  in  breathless  wonder.  **  I  never 
heard  a  word  of  all  this.  And  I  have  really  a  father  alive 
in  the  world?" 

**  Very  much  alive,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Mallory. 
**  Meaning  to  keep  so,  I  fancy,  for  an  indefinite  time.  Not 
only  a  father,  but  a  rich,  and  titled,  and  most  aristocratic 
father.  No  less  a  personage  than  Count  Gaston  Amadie 
de  Montreuiil" 

Her  listener  gave  a  little  gasp,  then  lay  perfectly  still, 
listening  with  all  her  might. 

*'  I  had  better  tell  you  t^^e  whole  story,"  said  Helen, 


'III. 
i» 

r 
1^ 


'    r 

,1 

I 


1! 
If 


h^ 


iH. 


m 


estella's  husband. 


slowly — "  the  story  of  your  mother's  wrongs  and  suffer- 
ings. Norah,  it  is  an  old  tale  to  you.  You  had  best  go 
and  see  after  dinner.  Our  little  patient  will  be  hungry,  I 
dare  say,  by  the  time  I  have  done." 

Norah  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Helen  looked  at  her  niece  with  a  sad  smile. 

**  She  has  been  with  us  from  my  childhood — this  faith* 
ful  Norah — until  now.  She  is  more  an  old  friend  than  a 
servant.  She  knows  all  I  am  going  to  tell  you — your  poor 
mother's  mournful  story.  More  than  you  know — is  it  not, 
my  dear?" 

*'  Except  that  I  was  born  at  Fisher's  Folly,  that  she  died 
there,  and  was  buried  in  Rockledge  Cemetery,  and  that  her 
name  was  the  same  as  mine  (Estella  Mallory),  I  know 
nothing. " 

*'  Her  maiden  name,  my  child;  she  bid  a  right  to  a  far 
prouder  one,  as  you  have,  also,  Estella  de  Montreuil.  But 
we  did  not  know  it;  she  was  faithful  unto  death,  and  kept 
her  heartless  husband's  secret  to  the  bitter  end.  For  ne 
was  heartless,  dear  child,  though  your  father — as  cruel  and 
cold-blooded  an  aristocrat  as  ever  brok-  i  loving  heart  I 
suppose  it  is  romantic  and  sentimental  m  an  old  maid  like 
me  to  believe  in  that  standard  dehifc^'on  of  poets  and  novel- 
ists— broken  hearts;  but  if  ever  honian  heart  broke  with 
sorrow  and  lost  love,  hers  did.  My  poor,  tender,  faithful 
little  sister!" 

The  steady  voice  broke  down  -dhe  tirned  away  her  face. 
Great  tears  rose  in  Estella's  brown  eyes,  as  she  gently  took 
one  of  Helen's  si  .i  u  >r  hands. 

*'  Go  f)n,"  flio  waid.  softly. 

**  Let  me  b 
after  a  pause;  "  wnen  ne  came  to  us  nrst — an  exue — an 
impoverished  foreigner,  under  a  false  name,  as  a  teacher 
of  his  native  language.  Monsieur  Kaoul  he  called  himself 
— a  handsome  fellow  enough,  though  I  never  liked  his  looks- 
or  his  manners,  faultless  as  were  both.  Ho  was  like  a 
hero  of  romance,  dear — I  suppose  you  read  romances? — 
tall,  and  dark,  and  distinguished,  and  melancholy-looking, 
with  great,  pathetic,  black  eyes,  a  sallow  face,  and  waving 
masses  of  jet-black  hair.  Yes,  he  was  very  handsome,  and 
very  elegant,  and  very  accomplished.  He  could  talk  in 
that  deep,  musical  voice  of  his  for  hours,  and  hold  us  all 
spell-buund  with  tales  of  fai:-  foreign  lands — of  his  own 


agin  ac  the  beginning,"  Miss  Mallory  said, 
**  when  he  came  to  us  first — an  exile- 


.,-(-!: 


]l 


estella's  husband. 


87 


beautiful  Paris;  he  could  sing,  he  could  play,  he  could 
waltz,  as  only  Frenchmen  can.  He  could  do  everything, 
in  fact,  that  was  fascinating,  and  shallow,  and  irresistible, 
and  the  short  of  the  matter  was  that  poor  Stella  fell  madly 
in  love  with  him  before  she  had  known  him  a  month." 

"So  should  I,"  said  Estella,  with  kindling  eyes.  "I 
only  wonder  yo2i  did  not.  Aunt  Helen." 

**  That  is  right,  my  dear — call  me  Aunt  Helen.  No,  I 
did  not  fall  in  love  with  him.  I  did  not  even  like  him, 
and  besides  I  was  hardly  twenty  then,  and  very  much  in 
love  with  somebody  else.  But  my  sister  Stella  loved  him 
enough  for  both;  she  was  blind,  and  mad,  and  utterly  in- 
fatuated; the  sun  rose  when  he  came  and  sunk  when  he 
went,  and  Monsieur  Raoul  bounded  the  whole  scheme  of 
the  universe  to  her.  Before  the  end  of  the  second  month 
all  was  over;  she  fled  from  home,  from  kindred,  giving  un 
all  the  world  for  him.  We  never  saw  her  again.  Peter 
Fisher's  letter,  telling  us  she  was  dead  and  buried,  a  year 
and  a  half  after,  was  the  first  tidings  of  my  lost  sister  we 
received.  My  child ,  if  I  were  to  talk  for  a  century,  I  could 
never  tell  you  how  bitter  the  blow  of  that  disgraceful  flight 
was.  We  thought  it  disgraceful  then-  i  know  now  that  a 
week  before  ever  she  left  her  home  she  wa?  hi"^  wedded 
wife.  I  know  it  now  from  his  own  lips— told  i  i  sorrow 
and  remorse  when  too  late;  but  he  had  bound  her  by  a 
solemn  promise  to  keep  his  secret  until  he  gs,ve  Ler  leave 
to  reveal  it,  and  she  obeyed  him  well.  She  lied  'inJ  made 
no  sign  that  she  was  a  wedded  wife,  sham  fully  deserted, 
and  that  her  child  had  a  right  to  bear  one  »of  the  oldest  and 
most  patrician  names  in  France.  For  ht  deserted  her, 
Estella — cruelly,  coldly  dp  ted  her — v/hen  tli^  ?!ews  came 
that  the  star  of  the  Frenc  t]mpire  had  once  more  arisen, 
that  Louis  Napoleon  had  ascended  the  throne,  aad  that  the 
name  of  De  Montreuil  v>  as  to  shine  once  more  in  all  its 
old  luster. 

**  The  news  came  tc  him  in  New  York,  where  he  and 
his  wife  were  starving  Logethor,  and  he  left  her  alone  and 
friendless,  penniless  and  ill,  and  went  back  to  France, 
burning  with  ambition. 

*'  What  was  the  pale,  sickly  girl  he  had  married  and 
lured  away  from  her  home,  that  she  should  stand  between 
him  and  the  glory  that  wrrt  to  be  his  under  the  Napoleonic 
dynasty?    He  left  her  to    ive  or  die  as  she  chose,  aad  it 


ill 

'till 

'"^ 

II' 


ir 


if 


'  4,'..'  5^ 


Am 


lilil 


ESTELLA  S    HUSBAND. 

WM  mercifully  death.  She  would  not  return  to  the  home 
she  had  left,  since  the  secret  of  her  marriage  was  to  be  kept 
a  secret  still,  and  by  the  strangest  of  all  strange  elections 
she  chose  to  go  to  old  Peter  Fisher.  She  had  known  him 
when  a  child — he  was  remotely  connected  with  our  moth- 
er's family;  she  knew  his  address,  and,  sick  and  starvmg., 
she  sought  the  shelter  of  his  wretched  home — to  die! 

"  He  took  her  in — you  were  born,  and  three  months 
after  he  laid  her  beneath  the  clay.  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  he  wrote  to  us  the  ending  of  that  bright  young  life! 
There  was  no  one  to  receive  the  news  but  me — a  miserable, 
lonely  girl—our  father  and  mother  had  followed  one  another 
to  the  grave,  broken  down,  disgraced,  heart-sick  with  sor- 
row and  shame.  My  sister  Stella  was  dead,  and  had  left 
her  baby  daughter  with  him,  and  he  meant  to  rear  her  and 
bring  her  up  to  be  a  daughter  to  hiia  in  his  old  age.  How 
well  he  kept  that  promise  we  know,  don't  we,  Estella?" 

"  I  have  had  a  lonely  life  and  a  hard  life,"  the  sick  girl 
said;  *'  but  he  never  turned  out  a  merciless  tyrant  until  of 
late.     Go  on. " 

**  I  answered  his  letter — a  few  sharp,  bitter  lines.  My 
heart  was  very  sore — my  life  was  blighted— I  had  given  up 
my  betrothed  husband  when  our  disgrace  came— proudly 
and  passionately  I  ^iud  refused  him.  I  would  disgrace  no 
name,  I  said — cast  dishonor  upon  no  honorable  name. 

"  So  George  Bartram  left  me  and  wedded  another  bride, 
and  I  had  little  reason  to  care  whether  my  dead  sister's 
nameless  child  lived  or  died.  I  settled  down  to  dreary 
old  maidenhood,  with  rancorous  bitterness  in  my  heart  for 
Monsieur  Raoul,  hating  the  whole  French  nation  for  his 
sake,  and  with  my  faithful  Norah,  dragging  out  my  lonely, 
loveless,  imperfect  life. 

\  **  But  as  years  went  on  I  softened.  My  sister's  memoi-y 
grew  less  bitter.  I  felt  a  desperate  longing  for  something 
to  love.  I  yearned  to  look  upon  the  face  of  her  child.  I 
wrote  to  Peter  Fisher  then,  asking  him  to  send  you  to  me, 
but  he  persistently  refused.  At  last  I  gave  it  up.  I 
ceased  writing  to  him  altogether  until  your  father  cam« 
and  changed  all. 

"  It  was  one  day,  late  last  April — a  dreary,  wet  day — as 
I  sat  here  alone,  that  the  door-bell  rang,  and  Norah  an- 
swered it.     An  instant  later  I  heard  her  wild  scream.    I 


\ 


estella's  husband. 


8S 


me, 
I 
pame 

t — as 

an- 
J 


started  up,  hurried  down-stairs,  and  found  myself,  after 
over  seventeen  years,  face  to  face  with  Monsieur  Kaoul! 

*'  I  knew  him  instantly,  and  he  knew  me.  Time  had 
changed  him  but  little.  Handsome  as  ever,  elegant  as 
ever,  self-possessed  as  ever,  he  looked  me  full  in  the  face, 
held  out  his  hand  and  spoke  my  name.  For  me,  I  turned 
sick  as  death.  My  dead  sister  rose  up  out  of  her  grave,  a 
reproachful  ghost;  and  I  think  if  I  had  had  strength,  I 
would  have  struck  him  in  the  face  with  my  open  hand. 
But  I  leaned  speechless  against  the  wall— sick  and  tremb- 
ling from  head  to  foot. 

**  *  Then  you  don't  know,'  were  the  first  distinct  words 
I  heard  him  utter — *  she  never  told?  Helen  Mallory,  I 
come  to  you  for  news  of  my  wife!' 

"  *  Your  wife!*  I  gasped.  *  Your  wife — was  my  sister 
JJstella— ' 

"  *  My  wedded  wife — yes,  before  ever  she  left  her  fa- 
ther's house  to  follow  my  fortunes.  Where  is  she  now?  I 
come  to  claim  her  at  last!' 

**  I  looked  at  him,  growing  cold  and  calm  all  at  once. 

**  *  You  come  rather  late  in  the  day.  Monsieur  Raoul,'  I 
said.  *  Death — a  more  faithful  bridegroom  than  you — 
claimed  her  sixteen  years  ago.  You  will  find  a  handful  of 
bones  and  ashes  in  "Rockledge  Cemetery,  if  you  choose  to 
go  there  and  seek.  But  she  was  your  wife — thank  God  for 
that!  Though  you  have  murdered  her — thank  God  for 
that!" 

**  He  turned  ghastly  white.  Estella,  full  as  my  heart 
was  of  horror  and  hatred  of  thai  man,  I  almost  pitied  him 
then. 

"'Dead!'  he  said.  *Dead!  I  feared  it.  I  knew  it! 
Oh,  Estella,  my  wife,  my  wife!' 

"  '  You  murdered  her,'  I  repeated,  steadily,  '  as  much 
as  though  you  had  plunged  a  knife  in  her  heart — only  hers 
was  a  more  lingering  death.  But  she  kept  your  secret 
well — she  was  faithful  to  the  end.  I  never  knew  she  had 
the  honor  of  being  your  wife.  Monsieur  Raoul,  until  this 
moment. ' 

'*  *  Spare  me,'  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice.  '  If  I  could 
give  my  life  to  recall  her,  I  would.  I  loved  her,  Helen 
Mallory,  better  than  I  ever  loved  earthly  creature;  but  my 
accursed  pride  and  ambition  were  still  stronger  than  my 
love.     And  yet  I  never  meant  to  desert  her.     I  left  her,  I 


It' 


90 


estella's  husband. 


l-i 


know,  in  poverty  and  loneliness,  and  went  back  to  France; 
but,  my  fortunes  retrieved,  I  wrote  to  her  at  once.  I 
never  received  an  answer.  I  wrote  again  and  again,  but 
always  with  a  like  result.  I  could  not  return  and  seek  for 
her,  and  so  I — I  gave  her  up.  I  took  it  for  granted  she 
had  returned  to  her  home,  had  told  all,  was  safely  sheltered 
here,  and  too  indignant  at  my  long  silence  to  reply  when  I 
did  write.  Heaven  help  me  I  and  all  the  time  my  poor 
darling  was  dead. ' 

**  *  Yes,' I  said,  *your  remorse  and  repentance.  Mon- 
sieur Raoul,  come  sixteen  years  too  late.  Let  your  pride 
and  your  ambition  console  you  now  if  they  can.  Or,  per- 
haps, monsieur  has  wedded  a  fairer  and  wealthier  bride — 
one  he  need  never  desert  or  be  ashamed  of?  Surely  all 
these  years  he  has  not  been  faithful  to  the  memory  of  the 
poor,  little,  love-struck  girl,  who  gave  up  all  the  world  for 
sake  of  his  handsome  face,  and  whose  heart  he  broke?' 

"  He  looked  at  me,  deathly  pale,  with  eyes  of  unutterable 
reproach. 

"  *  Yor  are  merciless,'  he  responded,  '  but  I  deserve  it. 
Yes,  Miss  Mallory,  I  have  been  faithful.  No  other  love 
has  ever  supplanted  your  sister.  Will  you  tell  me  how  she 
died?  Will  you  try  to  forgive,  as  you  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
or  must  I  leave  you  to  find  out  for  myself?' 

**  *  I  will  tell  you  nothing,'  I  answered,  passionately.  *  I 
wonder  you  dare  ask  it.  She  is  dead,  and  at  rest — let  fchat 
suffice.  But  her  daughter  lives,  monsieur — her  child  and 
yours — render  justice  to  her,  if  you  like.  Justice  to  the 
dead  is  beyond  even  your  reach. ' 

'*  And  then,  Estella,  I  told  him  of  you — only  keeping 
the  place  of  your  residence  a  secret.  Peter  Fisher's  wishes, 
and  your  wishes,  should  be  consulted  first,  I  thought. 
What  claim  had  this  Frenchman  upon  the  daughter  he  had 
never  seen? 

**  He  listened  in  breathless,  eager  interest,  his  face  glow- 
ing, his  eyes  kindling. 

**  '  Let  me  go  '  her!'  he  cried.  '  Tell  me  where  I  may 
find  my  Stella's  child.  Everything  her  heart  can  desire 
shall  be  hers;  for  listen,  Helen  Mallory — he  whom  you  call 
Monsieur  Kaoul  is  Count  Gaston  De  Montreiiil,  one  of  the 
richest  and  most  powerful  noblemen  in  the  French  realm. 
Let  me  find  my  child,  and  atone  through  her  to  her  dead 
mother. ' 


estella's  husband. 


91 


mg 

Iht. 

lad 

►w- 


**  But  I  refused — coldly,  resolutely  refused. 
I  will  write  to  her  guardian/  I  said,  frigidly, 


*« 


*  to  the 
protector  in  whose  care  her  dying  mother  left  her.  If  he 
chooses  to  resign  her — well;  if  not,  I  will  never  tell  you, 
Count  Gaston  De  Montreuil.  What  claim  have  you  upon 
her?  Come  back  to  me,  in  a  fortnight — you  shall  kave 
her  guardian's  answer  then.' 

**  He  pleaded,  he  begged,  all  in  vain.  I  was  inexorable. 
I  turned  my  back  upon  him,  and  left  him  standing  in  the 
hall,  my  heart  harder  and  more  bitter  to  him  than  ever. 
I  went  up  to  my  room,  and  wrote  that  letter  to  Peter 
Fisher — that  letter  you  never  saw,  and  which  he  never  an- 
swered. 

**  I  suppose  Count  de  Montreuil  was  too  proud  to  plead 
further,  but  at  the  end  of  the  fortnight  he  came  again. 
No  reply  had  been  returned  to  my  letter,  and  I  took  Peter 
Fisher's  silence  for  refusal  of  my  proposal.  I  told  him  so, 
and  he  looked  bitterly  disappointed. 

** '  And  I  am  obliged  to  return  to  France  in  three  days,' 
he  said.  '  The  diplomatic  business  which  has  brought  me 
to  this  country  is  satisfactorily  concluded.  1 77iust  return, 
and  there  is  no  time  left  to  search  for  my  child.  But, 
Helen  Mallory,  you  are  a  more  pitiless  enemy  than  ever  I 
thought  it  possible  for  you  to  be. 

"  *  I  am  what  you  and  your  doings  have  made  me,'  I 
answered.  '  I  would  not  swerve  an  inch  out  of  my  way  to 
do  you  a  good  turn,  Monsieur  le  Comte.  I  have  done  for 
you  all  I  will  do,  unless  your  daughter's  guardian  relents — 
in  that  case  I  will  write,  if  you  choose  to  leave  me  your  ad- 
dress. I  have  the  honor.  Count  De  Montreuil,  to  wish  you 
good-day.' 

"  And  so  we  parted — he  to  return  to  France,  I  to  resume 
my  lonely  life.  But  he  left  me  his  address,  in  case  I  should 
ever  have  occasion  to  write  to  him  of  you. 

"  And  now,  Estella,  you  know  all.  Your  father  is  a 
rich  and  powerful  nobleman.  As  his  daughter,  all  the 
splendor  of  this  world  may  bo  yours.  You  may  shine  in 
brilliant  foreign  courts;  you  will  be  feted,  and  flattered, 
and  caressed;  you  will  be  Mademoiselle  de  Montreuil,  sole 
heiress  of  a  princely  fortune. 

"  You  have  but  to  say  the  word,  and  I  will  write.  But 
remember,  Estella,"  and  Helen  Mallory'sdark  eyes  glowed 
with  tlie  deep  vindictiveness  oi  long  years,  **  he  broke  youi 


Itl 


iir 


^ 


f 


■I  Mr 

m 


il 

J' 


il 


It 


92 


estella's  husband. 


11 


mother's  heart,  he  blighted  her  life — he  loved  the  power 
and  glory  of  wealth  and  ambition  a  thousand  times  better 
than  ho  over  loved  you  or  her.  He  left  her  to  d'n},  cruelly, 
heartlessly — no  after  remorse  can  alter  that  fact.  In  going 
to  your  father,  you  go  straight  to  the  murderer  of  your 
mother/' 

*'  I  will  never  go!"  exclaimed  Estella,  passionately.  **  1 
would  die  first!  What  do  I  care  for  his  wealth  or  his  title? 
Let  him  keep  both,  and  bestow  them  upon  whom  he  likes, 
since  they  were  the  price  of  my  mother's  life.  I  will  never 
go  to  him,  never  acknowledge  Count  De  Montreuil  as  my 
father!" 

**  Think  well,"  said  Helen,  **  there  may  be  no  after- 
choice.     Take  time,  and  think  of  all  you  give  up." 

**  There  is  no  need.  If  I  thought  for  a  year  long,  my 
resolution  would  be  the  same.  I  never  knew  him;  I  don't 
want  to  know  him  now — a  father  who  would  be  ashamed, 
beside,  of  the  little,  awkward,  ignorant  country  girh  Let 
him  go,  let  us  forget  him;  I  never  wish  to  hear  his  name 
more.  But  you,  Aunt  Helen — you  will  give  poor  Essie  a 
little  corner  of  your  heart  and  home?" 

She  held  out  her  arms.  Helen  Mallory  folded  her  close 
to  her  breast,  with  almost  a  mother's  passion. 

**  Forever,  my  darling!  And,  when  Aunt  Helen  dies — 
and  she  will  not  be  along  liver — dear  child,  all  she  has  will 
be  yours.  It  is  no  princely  fortune  I  can  offer,  but  still  a 
fortune  with  which  all  the  pleasures  and  gayeties  of  this 
life  may  be  yours.  Only  love  me,  Estella — for  I  am  a 
lonely,  loveless  woman — and  promise  never  to  leave  me 
while  I  live." 

"  I  promise!"  Estella  said,  solemnly. 

And  then  silence  fell  between  them,  and  both  were  lost 
in  sad  thought. 

There  was  a  little  pang  of  remorse  at  Helen  Mai  lory's 
heart  for  what  she  had  done,  but  she  resolutely  refused  to 
harken  to  its  sting. 

*'  I  have  done  right,"  she  said,,  obstinately,  to  herself. 
*'  What  claim  has  this  bad,  ambitious  Frenchman  to  my 
dead  sister's  child?  As  she  says  herself,  he  would  be 
ashamed  of  her.  He  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  my  sis- 
ter Rs  his  wife,  and  this  poor  child  is  still  more  unformed 
and  under-bred.     Let   the  haughty   Frenchman  go— she 


ESTELLA  S    HUSBAND. 


tf3 


**1 


chooses  to  stay  with  aio.     T  will  provide  for  hor — make  her 
happy — and  leave  her  all  when  I  die." 

Make  her  happy?  Ah,  human  blindness!  If  flelen 
Mailory  could  have  foreseen  the  future — have  lifted  one 
corner  of  that  invstic  curtain  which  hides  our  destiny — how 
she  would  have  shrunk  in  iiorror  from  the  future  she  was 

Slanning  for  her  niece  I     Hut  that  tragic  future  was  hid- 
en,  and  Estella  went  on  blindfolded  to  her  Fate. 


lose 


a 
me 


ost 


I  to 


my 
be 


she 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  CONQUERING   HERO. 

Estella  Mallory  recovered  rapidly.  Youth,  and  hope, 
and  a  strong  constitution  speedily  triumphed  over  the 
weary  illness  that  had  held  her  a  prisoner  for  weeks.  And 
they  were  so  kind  to  her — Aunt  Helen  and  the  faithful 
Norah.  No  mother,  over  her  tirst-born,  could  be  more 
devoted  than  Helen  Mallory  to  this  beloved  niece.  By 
night  and  by  day  she  hovered  about  her,  never  tired  of 
ministering  to  her  invalid  wants,  of  coaxing  that  sick  ap- 
petite, of  reading  aloud,  of  conversing.  All  Estella's 
former  life,  as  far  back  as  she  could  remember,  was  hers, 
and,  in  return,  Aunt  Helen  told  her  of  the  one  romance 
of  her  own  lonely  existence — that  little  love  story,  blighted 
forever  by  her  only  sister's  supposed  disgrace. 

**  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,''  Helen  said,  with  a  sigh,  **  for 
I  loved  him  dearly,  and  he  loved  me,  and  no  act  of  any 
third  person  should  have  come  between  us.  But  I  was 
proud  and  bitter,  and  I  gave  him  up,  and  made  both  our 
lives  desolate.  For,  though  George  Bartram  married  an- 
other, he  never  loved  his  wife  as  he  loved  me.  I  knew  it 
from  his  own  dying  lips.  And  I — ah,  Essie!  the  dreary, 
weary,  lonely  years  I  have  dragged  through — my  heart 
empty  and  cold  and  heavy  as  stone!  I  never  look  upon 
his  brother's  face  but  that  the  old  pang  of  parting  comes 
back,  bitterer  than  death!" 

**  His  brother?" 

**  Yes,  my  dear— Alwyn  Bartram,  his  only  brother, 
many  years  younger  than  poor  George,  and  his  living  im- 
age. He  comes  here  to  see  me  sometimes.  He  knows  our 
story,  Essie,  and  his  presence  seems  like  a  link  between  the 
iiving  and  the  dead.     For  George  left  no  children,  and  hia 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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estella's  husband. 


wife  is  married  again,  and  Alwyn  is  the  lasfc  of  the  Bar* 
trains.  You  ought  to  see  him,  Essie,  my  little  hero-wor- 
shiper. He  is  handsome  as  a  demi-god,  and  an  author, 
and  an  artist,  and  everything  that  is  deh'ghtful.  If  I 
could  see  my  little  girl  Mrs.  Alwyn  Bartram,  I  think  I 
would  cease  to  regret  all  the  lost  years  of  my  life.'' 

Estella  laughed  and  blushed,  but  her  face  darkened 
also. 

**  You  forget.  Aunt  Helen,"  she  said;  *'  I  can  neyer 
marry.     Captain  Darrell  may  oome  here  and  claim  me." 

**  Let  him  try  it  I*'  impetuously  cried  Helen.  '*  Let 
him  dare  to  try  it!  No  no!  he  and  Peter  Fisher  know 
better  than  that.  ^  The  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men 
gang  aft  aglee,'  and  theirs  have  gone  in  this  case.  Set 
your  heart  at  rest,  Estella.  You  might  marry  to-morrow, 
cor  all  they  dare  interfere.  Captain  Darrell  has  no  more 
claim  upon  you  than  he  has  upon  me." 

**  You  think  so.  Aunt  Helen?      You  really  think  so?" 

**  I  know  so,  my  dear.  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve any  clergyman  was  ever  base  enough  to  perform  that 
ceremony.  In  the  second,  even  if  a  clergyman  did,  such 
a  marriage  would  be  null  and  illegal,  and  lay  both  him  aDd 
all  concerned  open  to  prosecution.  Forget  all  about  it, 
Estella.  It  is  only  an  unpleasant  episode  of  the  past  that 
can  never  harm  you  in  the  future.  Y'"ou  are  as  free  as  the 
wind  that  blows,  and  may  marry  my  favorite,  Alwyn,  to- 
morrow, and  snap  your  fingers  at  lioysten  Darrell." 

But  Estella  was  in  no  hurry  to  marry.  She  had  enough 
of  that  for  one  while.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  know  that 
she  was  free  and  safe;  and  convalescence  went  on  so  rap- 
idly that  in  another  week  she  was  able  to  move  about  and 
spend  the  bright  summer  days  in  her  arm-chair  by  the 
window. 

Very  pretty  looked  the  pale  invalid  m  her  delicate  white 
wrapper,  lighted  up  with  rosy  ribbons,  her  bright  brown 
ha'r  freshly  curled  and  perfumed,  and  the  tint  of  a  blush- 
rose  dawning  in  the  thin  cheeks. 

*'  Alwyn  ought  to  see  you  now,"  Helen  Mallory  said, 
her  dark  eyes  fall  of  love  and  pride.  '*  You  might  sit  for 
one  of  the  Madonnas  he  likes  so  much  to  paint,  with  that 
Bweet  moonlight  face  of  yours,  so  spiritual  and  so  lovely. 
Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,  my  pet;  but  you  know 


i) 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


you  are  pretty,  I  dare  say,  and  Alwyn,  with  his  artist's 
eyes,  will  go  wild  over  you  when  he  comes." 

And  Estella  laughed,  and  blushed  beautifully,  and  was 
pleased  beyond  everything,  and  took  a  prolonged  survey 
of  herself  in  the  mirror  when  injudicious  Aunt  Helen  went 
out. 

^^  Am  I  pretty?"  she  wondered.  "  I  never  thought 
about  my  looks  before,  and  I  always  was  ugly  in  the 
horrid,  dingy,  shabby  things  I  wore  at  Fisher's  Folly. 
Dick  liked  me;  but  then — poor  Dick — there  weren't  many 
beauties  among  the  sunburned  girls  of  Rockledge.  I  should 
like  to  be  pretty — I  should  dearly  like  it;  aud  I  hope — 1 
hope  this  handsome  artist  rnat/  admire  me  when  he  comes! 
Alwyn  Bartram!  such  a  dear,  romantic  name!  And  then^ 
oh,  to  think  of  his  being  a  poet^  and  an  artist  besides,  and 
to  know  a  poet  and  an  artist  has  been  the  dream  of  my 
life!" 

And  so,  thanks  to  Aunt  Helen  and  her  foolish  match- 
making, Estella's  silly  little  head  began  to  be  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  vain  conceits  and  dreamy  of  this  dark,  unknown 
hero. 

She  had  read  a  little  book,  all  blue  and  gold,  *'  Summer 
Dreams,"  by  An  Idler,  and  she  knew  the  **  Idler  "  to  be 
Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram,  and  to  her  the  pretty,  tender  jingle 
of  his  love  songs  was  the  sweetest  music  on  earth.  It  was 
an  unconscious  mixture  of  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Alfred 
Tennyson,  and  it  had  been  a  failure  in  the  literary  world, 
as  all  early  volumes  of  poems  seem  destined  to  be;  but  to 
Helen  Mallory  and  her  niece  it  was  as  the  music  of  the 
spheres,  with  every  line  worthy  to  be  written  in  letters  of 
gold.  She  had  read  his  only  novel,  **  The  Lady  Olaribel," 
another  literary  failure — a  tender,  dreamy,  misty,  love-idyl; 
she  had  seen  a  portfolio  of  his  drawings  and  water-color 
■ketches,  and  all,  all  had  been  perfection.  She  had  gazed 
on  his  portrait,  painted  by  himself — a  handsome,  dark-eyed 
fellow,  with  a  high  forehead,  and  a  beautiful,  sensitive 
mouth,  and  her  heart  had  thrilled — that  silly,  romantic 
heart! — and  had  almost  stopped  beating  at  the  delirious 
thought  that  one  day  she  was  destined  to  see,  to  speak  to 
this  wonderful  being  in  broadcloth. 

The  last  of  August  found  Estella  quite  well,  and  able  to 
race  np  and  down-stairs,  and  to  explore  her  future  home. 
A  very  nice  house — full  of  large,  airy,  pretty  apartments, 


lit'; 

•r,, 

r 


*: 

.11 

ii 

I    III! 


j  i 


"\ 


96 


estella's  husbanb. 


i:l 


Ifl 


'1 


with  an  elegant  drawing-room,  where  a  grand  piano  held 
solitary  state,  and  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram's  portrait  smiled 
serenely  down  from  the  papered  walls.  A  beautiful  room 
to  unsophisticated  Estella,  with  its  velvet  carpet^  its 
amber-stained  curtains,  its  carved  and  gilded  chairs,  its 
grand  gasalier,  its  pictures  and  flowers  and  splendidly 
bound  books.  Aunt  Helen  laughed  at  the  little  country 
girl's  raptures. 

*'  Foolish  child!  it  is  only  a  very  commonplace  apart- 
ment, after  all.  Wait  until  you  go  into  society — wait  until 
you  *  come  out,'  and  go  to  parties  over  in  the  city,  and 
then  you  will  see.  My  poor  little  drawing-room  will  look 
contracted  and  shabby  enough  in  comparison  with  the  un- 
told glories  of  Beacon  Street.  I  seldom  enter  it  myself, 
except  now  and  then  for  an  hour's  practice.  You  can't 
play,  of  course;  well,  I  shall  teach  you." 

And  then  Aunt  Helen  opened  the  piano,  and  sat  down 
and  played  a  few  waltzes  and  marches,  and  threw  her 
niece  into  a  second  ecstasy  of  delight. 

**  Will  I  ever  be  able  to  play  like  that.  Aunt  Helen?  Oh, 
how  beautiful  it  is,  and  how  happy  you  ought  to  be!" 

*'  Ought  I?  Yes,  I  suppose  so — if  I  were  not  the  most 
nngratoful,  discontented  wretch  alive.  But  I  am  happy 
now,  since  I  have  got  my  darling  Essie,  and  I  mean  to  oe 
happier,  teaching  her  all  I  know — which  isn't  mnch. 
And,"  pinching  the  bright  cheeks,  **  happiest  of  all,  when 
Alwyn  Bartram  comes  and  falls  headlong  in  love  witk 
her." 

Estella  listened  complacently.  She  heard  such  speeches 
as  this  so  often  that  it  was  growing  to  seem  quite  a  settled 
thing  that  her  unknown  hero  should  fall  in  love  with  her  at 
first  sight,  and  make  her  his  wife  out  of  hand.  Miss  Mal- 
lory  had  written  to  New  York,  where  thisdemi-god  resided, 
to  invite  him  to  Chelsea,  and  the  demi-god  had  returned 
a  few  dashing  lines,  in  a  big,  masculine  fist,  accepting  the 
invitation  for  the  middle  of  September. 

There  had  been  a  second  letter  also  from  Mr.  Peter 
Fisher,  demanding  an  account  of  his  runaway  ward;  "  Mrs. 
Roysten  Darrell."  And  Helen  had  sent  him  such  an  an- 
swer, in  the  indignation  of  the  moment,  as  had  effectually 
stopped  all  further  communication.  She  had  exposed  all  his 
villainy — threatened  both  him  and  Roysten  Darrell  with  in- 
stant prosecution  if  they  dared  molest  her  niece — informed 


estella's  husband. 


97 


him  of  that  niece's  decision  to  live  with  her,  and  not  to 
return  to  her  father,  and  ended  hy  the  announcement  thar. 
Estella  was  neither  his  ward  nor  Boysten  Darrell's  wife, 
and  that  all  his  plotting  and  cruelty  had  failed.  Peter 
Fisher  was  effectually  silenced  at  once  and  forever. 

Estella's  new  life  now  fairly  began.  Helen  constituted 
lierself  her  teacher,  and  gave  her  lessons  in  music,  in  French 
and  drawing,  and  from  the  first  the  girl  made  rapid  prog- 
ress. Ah,  how  bright  those  September  days  were — 
passed  in  delightful  study,  with  the  most  indulgent  of 
teachers — or  in  delightful  reading  of  novels  and  romances, 
in  driving,  walking,  shopping  and  visiting!  She  grew  so 
brightly  pretty  that  you  would  never  have  known  her  for 
the  same  little  pale-faced,  sallow  girl,  and  sometimes  gazing 
in  the  mirror  at  her  own  radiant  face,  Estella  wondered  S. 
"The  I." 

The  crowning  glory  of  her  life  was  very  near — her  day 
of  fate  was  close  at  hand.  Coming  home  one  evening 
from  a  long  walk,  she  found  Aunt  Helen  waiting  dinner, 
and  reading  the  ''Evening  Herald.''  She  threw  down 
the  paper  at  sight  of  her  niece  and  took  her  place  at  the 
table. 

"  Booth  plays  *  Hamlet '  to-night  at  the  Boston,  Essie," 
she  said.  *'  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  and  see  him.'*  You 
were  saying  the  other  day  you  had  never  been  inside  a 
theater  in  your  life. " 

'*  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  auntie.  But  you — you 
never  go  to  such  places." 

"  Then  I  will  begin  for  your  sake,  my  dear,"  Miss  Mal- 
lory  said,  brightly.  *'  I  have  played  recluse  long  enough. 
We  will  engage  a  box  and  go  to-morrow  night. " 

Estella  was  charmed — theaters,  operae,  and  all  that, 
were  like  the  fabled  glories  of  the  Arabian  Nights  to  her 
— something  to  dream  of  and  wonder  over.  And  now  she 
was  to  behold  their  splendors  and  enchantments  with  her 
own  eyes.  She  passed  that  night  and  all  next  day  in  a 
fever  of  expectation,  and  when  the  hour  came  to  dress, 
took  more  pains  with  her  toilet  than  she  had  ever  taken 
before  in  her  life. 

"  Will  I  do.  Aunt  Helen?"  she  asked,  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

Aunt  Helen's  own  eyes  lighted  up  almost  as  brightly  ai 
the  girl's  as  she  surveyed  her. 


i'< 


11'-' 


m 

III 

•in 


II : 


n  ; 
til  I 


98 


estella's  husband. 


"  Little  Conceit!  look  in  the  glass!  You  know  quite  afl 
well  as  I  do  how  pretty  you  are.  Ah!  why  won't  Alwyn 
hurry,  and  be  dazzled  by  my  brown-eyed  darling?" 

Estella  laughed  and  shook  out  her  summery  robes.  Yes, 
she  was  looking  pretty — very,  very  pretty  in  her  blue  silk 
dress,  her  white  opera-cloak,  and  coquettish  little  white 
kat  and  blue  plume.  Very  pretty,  with  all  her  gold-brown 
ringlets  falling  in  shining  shower  to  her  waist — her  eyes 
full  of  golden  light,  her  cheeks  like  June  roses.  And  the 
little  witch  knew  it,  and  smiled  brightly  back  at  her  own 
image. 

**  I  am  glad  your  little  countrified  niece  won't  disgrace 
you.  Aunt  Helen.  And  you — but  then  you  always  look 
stately  and  elegant,  my  handsome  auntie.,  so  where  is  the 
use  of  telling  you  you  are  both  now?  Ah,  what  a 
change  a  few  weeks  have  made  in  my  life!  If  any  one  had 
told  me  three  months  ago  when  I  was  moped  to  death 
at  Fisher's  Folly,  like  Mariana  in  her  *  Moated  Grange,' 
that  to-night  I  would  be  going  to  the  Boston  Theater  to 
see  Edwm  Booth — robed  in  silk  and  lace — I  would  no 
more  have  believed  it  than  I  could  have  believed  in  the 
fabulous  tale  of  Cinderella." 

**  Very  likely,  my  dear,  and  tJiis  is  but  the  beginning. 
Wait  until  you  make  your  debut,  and  it  is  the  theater,  the 
opera,  and  two  or  three  parties  each  night,  over  and  over 
again.  I  foresee  that  my  little  girl  is  going  to  be  the  belle 
of  the  season. " 

They  were  rattling  along  in  the  carriage  over  the  tortu- 
ous streets  of  Boston,  and  Estella  was  gazing  delightedly 
out  of  the  window.  To  her  the  brilliantly  lighted  stores, 
the  crowded  sidewalks,  the  bustle  and  life,  were  a  never- 
ceasing  delight. 

**  It  is  like  a  tale  of  enchantment,"  she  said,  dreamily; 
'  I  can't  quite  realize  it.  Somtimes  I  grow  almost  afraid 
^such  happiness  can  not  last." 

Miss  Mallory  smiled  indulgently.  The  carriage  stopped 
— a  moment  later,  they  were  being  shown  to  their  box  by 
the  obsequious  usher.  Of  course,  the  theater  was  crowded 
— was  not  Booth  playing? — and  the  orchestra  was  crashing 
out  some  grand  but  deafening  overture  as  they  took  their 
places.  The  lights,  the  music,  the  vast  throng!  The  little 
country  girl  caught  her  breath  with  one  ecstatic  gasp,  and 
sank  into  her  seat  and  gazed  around  her  like  one  in  some 


estella's  husband. 


9i 


some 


rapturous  trance.  Helen  Mallory  looked  in  her  dazzled 
faoe,  and  laughed  outright. 

*'  You  little,  rustic  goose!  You  little,  excitable  enthu- 
siast! I  never  saw  such  an  entranced  countenance  in  my 
life!  What  is  it?  This  bit-  building — the  gas-blaze — the 
people — Lhe  music— what  V 

*'  Everything!  All  together!  Oh,  Aunt  Helen,  it  is 
like  fairy-land." 

*' Indeed!  But  I  never  was  in  fairy-lnnd.  How  de- 
lightrul  it  must  be  to  be  young,  and  fresh,  and  able  to  go 
into  raptures  only  at  sight  of  a  theater!  Ah!  there^s  the 
bell;  now  use  your  ears  as  well  as  your  eyes,  for  Edwin 
Booth  is  worth  listening  to.*' 

The  play  began.  Estella  leaned  forward,  rapt  breath- 
less, drinking  in  every  word.  It  was  all  familiar — had 
she  not  spent  the  day  reading  *' Hamlet?'* — but  to  see 
it  played — that  was  different.  She  hardly  moved — she  hard- 
ly seemed  to  breathe  until  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  first 
act.  More  than  one  glass  in  the  crowded  house  turned 
admiringly  upon  the  pretty,  rapturous,  youthful  face;  but 
Estella  never  saw  them. 

Among  them  was  that  of  a  tall,  dark  gentleman,  who 
had  lounged  in  with  a  party  of  friends,  and  who  was  paying 
more  attention  to  the  people  about  him  than  to  the  busi- 
ness of  the  stage. 

*'  Look,  Bar  tram,"  said  one  of  his  companions — *'  look 
at  that  face  in  the  proscenium  box  opposite — the  girl  with 
the  white  opera-cloak  and  jockey-hat.  If  you  ever  feel 
inclined  to  paint  '  Enthusiasm  '  there  is  your  model  ready 
to  your  hand. " 

"  A  pretty  face,  too,*'  said  a  second.  **  Bartram  might 
paint  her  for  the  goddess  Hebe,  so  bright  and  roseate 
she  is.  It  does  one  good  in  this  age  of  chalky  pallor  to 
see  such  celestial  bloom  as  that. " 

The  gentleman  addressed  leveled  his  glass,  and  took  a 
long  stare  at  the  pretty,  rosy  face.  Then,  quite  as  care- 
lessly, he  glanced  at  Hebe's  companion,  and  dropped  his 
lorgnette  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 

**  By  Jove!"  he  said,  "  who'd  have  thought  it?" 

"  What!"  exclaimed  the  first  speaker,  *'  you  don't  know 
them,  do  you?  You've  luck  always,  Bartram — the  luck 
of  a  good-looking  artist.  Who  are  they?  What's  the 
earthly  name  of  our  golden-eyed  divinity?" 


f\ 

ll 


s\ 


li 

III! 


100 


ESTELLA^    HUSBAND. 


**  I  don't  know  your  golden-eyed  divinity,  Lawlor,  but 
the*  handsome,  uplifted-looking  lady  beside  her  is  Misi 
Helen  Mullory,  of  Chelsea,  one  of  my  dearest  and  oldest 
friends.  I  must  pay  my  respects  at  once.  Allans, 
messieurs." 

*'  And  you  don't  know  the  '  Girl  with  'be  golden  eyes?'  " 
Lawlor  said,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  Never  saw  her  before,  but  I  more  than  suspect  that 
she  is  the  elder  lady's  niece.  Shall  I  plead  your  cause, 
Lawlor?  tell  her  it  is  the  tenth  case  of  loTe  at  first  sight 
with  you  within  a  week?  An  revoir  until  to-morrow.  I 
go  to  bask  in  the  smiles  of  your  goddess. " 

Five  minutes  later,  and  the  door  of  the  box  opened,  and 
the  tall,  dark  gentleman  sauntered  easily  in. 

**  Can  I  really  believe  my  eyes?"  he  said,  holding:  out 
his  hand.  *'  Is  this  Miss  Helen  Mallory,  the  Recluse  of 
Chelsea,  or  only  an  optical  delusion?  Please  shake  hands, 
and  relieve  me  of  doubt." 

Miss  Mallory  turned  sharply  around,  and  barely  repressed 
a  cry  of  delight.  Her  whole  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure 
at  the  sight  of  the  dark,  handsome,  smiling  face. 

**  You,  Alwyn?"  she  cried.  **  Oh,  what  a  surprise  this 
is!  The  last  person  on  earth  I  should  have  dreamed  of 
seeing  here!" 

**  Exactly  what  I  have  been  saying  to  myself  ever  since 
I  first  set  eyes  on  you." 

But  I  thought  you  were  in  New  York?" 
Did  I  not  say  I  was  coming  about  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember, and  is  not  this  the  middle  of  September?  I  have 
but  just  arrived,  and  dropped  in  here  with  some  fellows  to 
have  a  look  at  Booth,  on  my  way  to  Chelsea.  Verily,  you 
might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather  when  I  lifted 
my  eyes  and  beheld  you." 

**  I  came  on  Essie's  account,"  Helen  said,  smiling. 
**  The  stage  lost  its  charms  for  me  long  ago.  Estella,  my 
dear,  let  me  present  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram,  of  New  York. 
My  niece,  Alwyn,  of  whom  I  made  mention  in  my  letter.'* 

**  I  thought  as  much,"  Mr.  Bartram  said.  **  I  knew  it 
could  be  no  other.  And,  then,  she  resembles  you.  Miss 
Helen.  Miss  Estella,  we  must  be  verv  good  friends^  since 
we  are  both  the  property  of  *  Aunt  Helen.'  " 

He  shook  hands  gayly.  And  Estella?  She  knew  from 
the  first  moment  it  was  he^her  kero — her  demi-god  in 


(t 


<« 


ESTELLA'S    HLSHAND. 


101 


the  flesh!    Was  not  that  duskily  handsome  face  pictured 
already  indelibly  on  her  sentimental  little  heart? 

Artist,  author,  poet,  he  stood  before  her,  beautiful  with 
"  man's  best  beauty  " — a  being  for  other  men  to  envy,  and 
women  to  adore.  And  they  expected  her  to  lift  her  daring 
eyes  to  this  modern  Byron,  to  dare  to  talk  to  this  author 
of  "  Lady  Claribel,"  this  writer  of  entrancing  poems? 

The  foolish  heart  of  the  dreamer  of  sixteen  actually 
seemed  to  stand  still  with  unutterable  admiration  and  awe. 

Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram,  all  unconscious  of  the  havoc  he  was 
making  in  that  wildly  beating  breast,  leaned  lightly  over 
the  back  of  her  chair,  and  talked  away  animatedly  to  Miss 
Mai  lory.  If  he  had  not  been  an  author  and  a  demi-god, 
and  handsome  as  an  angel,  Estella  might  have  thought  his 
rapid  flow  of  remarks  commonplace  and  trite  enough,  but 
being  both,  every  word  took  a  depth  in  her  eyes  not  intrin- 
sically its  own,  and  were  as  the  pearls  and  diamonds  drop- 
ping from  the  lips  of  the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale.  And  then, 
the  voice  that  went  on  so  fluently  was  the  deepest,  the 
richest,  the  most  melodious  of  masculine  tones,  and  the 
slender  hands  that  lay  on  the  crimson  velvet  back  of  Es- 
tella's  chair  were  the  white,  shapely  artist's  hands  the  girl 
admired  so  much.  Altogether  he  was  perfect — better 
than  the  hero  of  any  novel  she  had  read. 

*'  And  Aunt  Helen  expects  him  to  admire  me — a  little, 
awkward,  silent,  plain  country  girl  like  me  !'*  she  thought, 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  despair.  *'  He  is  too  bright  and 
beautiful  and  talented  for  a  Princess  Royal!" 

As  the  thought  crossed  her  mind,  he  suddenly  bent  over 
her  with  an  electric  smile  that  was  like  a  flash  of  light 
Aunt  Helen  had  been  speaking  of  her^  and  he  had  been 
listening  with  an  amused  face. 

**  I  am  so  glad  you  like  my  dreary  scribble.  Miss  Essie," 
he  said.  *'  I  may  call  you  Essie,  may  I  not,  since  Aunt 
Helen  gives  me  permission?  I  wish  those  horrible  critics 
could  have  done  the  same,  but  they  tore  my  two  unfort- 
unate little  books  to  atoms.  They'deserved  it,  I  dare  say, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  excruciating  at  the  time.'' 

*'  And  you  authors  are  such  a  thin-skinned  race,"  Aunt 
Helen  said.  "  Still,  I  suppose  you  have  got  over  it  before 
this." 

Mr.  Bartram  laughed. 
I  hope  so;  nevertheless  I  shall  be  in  no  haste  to  launch 


'III. 
ill" 

r 

¥ 

il 

1vi 


Is 
M 


if 


(( 


102 


estella's  husband. 


**That  is 
books,  donH 


a  third  literary  craft  upon  these  troubled  waters.     I  haT« 

given  myself  up  to  art,  and  left  the  sister  profession  so, " 

**  And  your  uncle's  business,  Alwyn — what  of  that?*' 

*'  Stock-broking?  Oh!  I  have  given  that  the  go-by  alto- 
gether, and  so  ouended  the  old  man  mortally.  1  haven't 
seen  him  in  six  months,  but  as  ho  duly  remits  my  allow- 
ance,  I  manage  to  drag  on  existence  without  the  light  of  his 
countenance. 
k     **  And  your  pictures  sell,  I  suppose?" 

Alwyn  Bartram  made  a  wry  face,  then  laughed  once 
more. 

the  worst  of  it!  No,  my  pictures,  like  my 
sell.  Either  the  world  has  lost  all  taste,  or 
else  I —  Bat  the  other  supposition  is  too  horrible  to  be 
thought  of.  I  shall  awake  some  day,  no  doubt,  and  find 
myself  famous.  Meantime,  with  full  coffers,  life  in  New 
York  goes  agreeably  enough. " 

*'  There  is  no  danger,  I  trust — I  am  silly  to  think  of  it 
Your  uncle  has  no  one  else  to  leave  his  fortune  to,  of 
course. " 

**  But  he  has,  by  Jove!  and  a  very  blue  lookout  it  will 
be  for  me  if  he  does  it.  He  thinks  his  other  nephew,  Rob- 
ert  Bartram — *  Robert  the  Devil,'  as  he  used  to  oe  called — 
is  still  alive  somewhere.  I  was  his  prime  favorite  until  I  re- 
fused to  go  into  the  office;  now  his  thoughts  turn  to  scape- 
grace Robert.  But  I  shall  hope  on  until  the  end  comes, 
and  trust  to  my  old  luck." 

He  laughed  again — the  cares  of  life  evidently  sat  lightly 
on  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram's  handsome  shoulders.  He  talked 
away  animatedly  to  Miss  Mallory  and  her  niece  until  the 
play  ended,  and  they  drove  home  together,  for  he  was  to 
be  their  guest  while  in  Boston. 

But  Estella  talked  very  little  in  return — monosyllables 
were  all  she  could  find  in  reply  to  this  hero  of  her  dreams. 

SShe  stood  looking  at  herself  again  tha^.  night  before  re- 
tiring, in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  her  own  room.  The 
rose  bloom  was  as  bright,  the  golden  lusterdn  the  hazel 
eyes  as  brilliant  as  ever,  but  in  hor  heart  there  was  noth- 
ing but  despair. 

**  I  can  not  talk  to  him — I  hardly  dare  lift  my  eyes  to 
his  face;  I  am  not  even  pretty,  with  those  milk-maid 
cheeks  and  red-brown  hair.     And  he— oh^  how  handsomOi 


I> 


estella's  husband. 


103 


how  beautiful  he  is!    And  I  love  him  already  with  all  my 
heart!'' 


once 


yes  to 
-maid 
some, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MR.    ALWYN   IJARTRAM. 

Kr.  Alwtn  Bartram  lingered  two  weeks  in  that  pleas- 
ant old  house  in  **dull  Chelsea'* — two  brighly  bfissfui 
weeks — and  turned  it  into  Paradise.  To  Estella  Mallory, 
the  little  girl  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  those  two 
celestial  weeks  stood  out  ever  after  from  the  story  of  her 
life  as  a  time  passed  in  Eden.  Kever  shone  the  sun  so 
bright,  never  sped  golden  summer  days  so  swiftly;  never 
was  there  so  glorified  a  being  in  all  the  wide  earth  as  this 
dark-eyed  artist  and  poet,  and  never  was  there  half  so 
blessed  and  happy  a  girl  as  little,  foolish  Estella.  Come 
what  might,  she  had  been  blessed;  no  after  misery — and 
the  misery  was  very  .  ear — could  alter  that. 

Mr.  Bartram  was  one  of  those  happily  constituted  people 
who  are  immediately  at  home  wherever  they  go;  whose 
smiles  shed  sunshine  around  them,  who  are  destined  to  be 
spoiled,  and  petted,  and  caressed  by  the  whole  world.  Men 
liked  him,  women  fell  in  love  with  him,  matrons  indulged 
him,  and  young  girls  went  wild  for  love  of  his  handsome 
face. 

He  did  everything,  or  a  little  of  everything  that  soci- 
ety liked.  He  playeJd  the  piano  brilliantly,  he  sung  in  the 
richest  of  superb  tenors,  he  waltzed  to  perfection,  he 
painted  lovely  little  pictures,  and  scribbled  more  lovely 
little  poems. 

And  if  he  made  love  to  every  young  lady  he  met,  who 
can  blame  him,  since  those  young  ladies  made  love  in  their 
own  pretty  roundabout  way  to  him  first,  showering  smiles 
upon  him  and  turning  their  backs  contemptuously  upon 
less  favored  mortals? 

He  was  the  '*  darling  of  the  gods,"  with  the  purse  of 
Fortunatus  in  prospective  when  that  stock-broking  uncle 
should  see  fit  to  die;  a  genius  in  the  present,  blessed  with 
a  light  heart,  an  elastic  conscience,  a  sound  digestion,  and 
the  beauty  of  an  Apollo  Belvidere.    Lucky  Alwyn  Bartram ! 

And  Estella  adored  him.  That  is  the  word  for  it.  And 
the  pretty,  youthful  face  grew  celestial  in  its  bright  bliis 
and  blushing  happiness. 


m 
III 


II  f 

il 


II': 

Jf 


104 


ebtella's  husband. 


I     ! 


Hurely  Alwyn  Bartrani  would  have  been  stone  blind  oonld 
he  huvu  misutulei'Btood  those  radiant  eves  that  told  their 
innocent  story  80  plsiinly;  thosu  rosuatu  blushuB  that  came 
and  went  so  Ijeautifiilly  at  his  bidding. 

I^iit  ho  w;3  very  well  urfud  to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  took 
it  qui  to  as  n  mutter  of  course,  lie  admired  Jlelun  Mal- 
lory  s  bright-faced  niece  very  much,  after  a  lazy  artist  sort 
of  fashion,  and  looked  at  the  glowing  blushes  with  a  cool, 
professional  eye. 

'*  The  very  model  1  want  for  my  Uniline,"  he  said,  crit- 
ically; "  the  face  I  have  been  searching  for  everywhere  and 
failed  to  find — youthful,  innocent,  trusting  and  sweet.  I 
shall  sketch  that  exquisite  face  and  head  of  yours.  Miss 
Essie,  and  immortalize  you  in  oils  when  1  get  back  to  New 
York.  1  am  going  to  be  very  industrious  next  winter — 
ignore  the  opera,  give  all  my  Bohemian  friends  the  cut  di- 
rect, turn  my  back  upon  the  best  metropolitan  society,  and 
take  the  world  of  art  by  storm.  My  Undine  '  shall  make 
my  fortune.'  '* 

And  forthwith  Mr.  Bartram  fell  to  work,  and  enthusias- 
tically dashed  ofi  a  sketch  of  blushing  Essie  on  the  spot 

"  It's  a  thousand  pities  1  can't  carry  you  off  with  me, 
Essie,"  he  said.  "  Such  a  model  might  inspire  the  veriest 
dauber  that  ever  spoiled  canvas.  Ah!  how  I  should  work 
with  you  in  my  studio — my  Undine's  sunshiny  face  light- 
ing its  dingy  walls!  What  a  picture  I  should  paint!  howl 
should  astonish  those  old  academicians,  who  sneer  so  mer- 
cilessly at  my  piteous  failures  now!  I  wish  I  had  a  nice 
old  mother  to  play  propriety,  and  make  you  her  guest.  1 
would  carry  off  my  Undine,  Miss  Helen  Mallory,  will- 
ingly." 

Helen  Mallory  smiled,  very  well  pleased;  this  was  just 
what  she  wanted.  Mr.  Bartram  might  carry  off  her  pretty 
niece  any  day  he  liked,  even  without  the  **  nice  old  mother  " 
to  play  propriety  in  New  York,  and  light  up  his  studio 
with  her  loveliness,  and  paint  **  Undines ''  for  the  remain- 
der of  his  mortal  career.  A  plain  gold  ring  and  a  bridal 
wreath  would  make  that  all  right. 

"  You  will  turn  Essie's  head  with  flattery,  Alwyn,"  she 
said,  aloud.  *^  So  she  makes  a  nice  Undine,  does  she? 
Who  is  to  be  your  traitor  knight — yourself?" 

''  If  1  can  find  no  bet-ter  modeL    But  1  should  never  be 


)/ 


EST  Ella's  hushand. 


105 


"she 
she? 


ft  '3  to  8uoh  an  Undino,"  he  suid,  gayly.  '*  Were  I 
Uilili  brand,  I  would  never  seek  a  fairer  bride. '* 

*'  It  is  ooiiiiijg,**  tliouj^ht  Heltm,  j^Iaiicinj;  aoross  at  Eb* 
tolhi's  liappy,  «5lowiiij(  face;  *'  the  dream  of  my  life  will  be 
realizi  (I  at  last.  1  will  live  to  see  my  darling  Alwyn  Har- 
tram's  wife.  And  she  loves  him— my  little  dove-eyed  dar- 
jing — her  inTiocunt  face  shows  it  every  iioiir  of  tlie  day.  1 
ought  to  tell  him  iier  story,  J  suppose,  and  yet  why  need 
1?  lie  knows  as  mueh  of  her  mother's  liistory  as  I  did 
before  thu  Count  Montreuil  turned  up.  What  neces;iity  is 
there  for  his  knowing  more?  Essie  and  her  father  will 
never  meet.  And  as  for  her  history — that  painful  episode 
of  Fishur's  Folly — the  poor  child  shrinks  so  sensitively 
from  all  allusion  to  it,  that  I  hate  to  betray  her;  and  yet, 
if  he  marries  her  he  ought  to  know.  However,  when  he 
speaks  it  will  be  time  enough  to  decide  all  thaL" 

So  Miss  Mallory  put  o£f  the  evil  time,  and  let  events  take 
their  course. 

But  the  glowing  days  of  that  sunny  September  wore  on, 
one  after  another,  and  still  the  handsome  artist  did  not 
'*  speak.'' 

He  was  as  delighted  as  ever,  as  irresistibly  fascinating. 
He  walked  with  Essie,  drove  with  her,  sung  for  her,  gave 
her  lessons  in  drawing,  took  her  to  every  place  of  amuse- 
ment open  in  the  city,  sketched  her  pretty  face  in  a  hun- 
dred different  ways,  paid  her  lazy,  artist-like  compliments; 
but  he  never  **  spoke." 

If  Helen  Mallory  had  not  been  thoroughly  out  of  prac- 
tice in  everything  pertaining  to  the  grand  passion,  she 
must  have  seen  at  once  that  his  open,  outspoken  admiration 
foreboded  the  very  worst  of  her  pet  scheme. 

Mr.  Alwyn  Bar  tram,  smoking  his  endless  cheroots,  and 
sketching  Essie's  charming  face,  would  have  opened  his 
lazy,  dark  eyes  in  wide  wonder,  could  he  only  have  known 
what  was  passing  in  Miss  Mallory's  mind.  Even  Norah 
saw  that  to  which  he  was  stone  blind. 

"Drat  the  man!"  exclaimed  Helen  Mallory's  faithful 
tire- woman.  **  Where's  his  eyes?  Can't  he  see  that  poor 
little  girl  is  dead  in  love  with  his  handsome  face,  and  that 
Mifis  Helen  is  set  on  the  match  with  all  her  heart?  There 
he  goes  dawdling  and  meandering  about,  smoking  contin- 
ual, and  painting  of  his  good-for-nothing  little  pictures, 
and  as  blind  as  a  bet  to  it  all     And  by  and  by  he  wiU 


rH 


Ml.' 
ill 

IIP 

i  ¥ 


106 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


take  himself  off,  and  leave  the  house  as  desolate  as  a  dnn- 
geoQ;  and  poor  Miss  Essie  to  pine  her  heart  out,  for  all  he 
car  OS.  They're  all  alike,  these  men!  Thank  the  Lord  I 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  them!" 

The  possibility  that  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram  might  be  as 
"  dead  in  love  "  with  somebody  else  as  Estclla  was  with 
him  never  seemed  to  enter  into  the  range  of  their  thoughts. 

But  the  fatal  truth  came  home  to  the  girl  herself,  as  she 
sat  by  her  idol's  side  one  misty  September  twilight,  the 
drawing-room  all  to  themselves. 

It  was  a  hazy,  overcast  afternoon,  with  a  threatening 
of  rain  in  the  lowering  sky,  and  a  bleak,  easterly  wind 
whistling  shrilly  up  the  deserted  street.  That  easterly 
wind  had  driven  Helen  to  bed  with  nervous  headache,  and 
kept  Mr.  Bartram  and  Esteila  confined  to  the  hoase. 

He  had  been  reading  aloud  to  her  her  pet  poem,  "  Lock- 
sley  Hall,''  charming  her  for  the  thousandth  time  with 
those  deep,  melodious  tones.  Now  the  book  was  thrown 
aside,  and  in  the  tender  twilight  dreamy  silence  fell  be- 
tween them. 

**  When  shall  I  read  Tennyson  to  you  again,  Essie,  I 
wonder?"  Mr.  Bartram  said,  dreamily.  "  You  will  for- 
get all  about  me,  1  suppose,  when  I  am  gone.  And  1  go 
on  Monday, " 

"  On  Monday!"  Esteila  said,  with  a  sort  of  gasp;  "  and 
this  is  {Saturday  evening!" 

And  then  her  voice  suddenly  failed  her,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  wild,  wide  eyes. 

Alwyn  Bartram  saw  that  look,  and  his  heart  smote  him. 
Her  cherished  secret,  so  closely  hidden  as  she  thought, 
was  very  large  print — poor  child — and  easily  read. 

And  he  had  not  meant  to  make  love  to  her,  either — this 
innocent  little  girl — and  yet  in  a  thousand  indirect  ways 
he  had  done  it  from  the  first.  Ke  saw  that  sudden  whiten- 
ing of  the  fair  face,  that  wild  dilation  of  the  wonderful 
brown  eyes,  and  the  sharpest  pang  of  remorse  he  had  ever 
felt  pierced  his  careless  heart. 

**  What  a  wretch  I  am!"  he  thought;  "  what  a  frivol- 
ous, heartless  wretch!  And  this  child  is  as  innocent  of  the 
meaning  of  the  verb  *  to  flirt '  as  the  babe  in  its  cradle.  I 
have  made  her  think  1  care  for  her  until  she  has  grown  to 
care  for  me;  I  have  treated  her  as  I  would  have  treated 
any  hardened  coquet  in  Vanity  Fair,  and  now- 


» 


)  i 


estella's  husbakix 


107 


He  woald  not  finish  his  mental  sentence;  he  turned 
Away  from  the  sight  of  thiit  pale,  startled  young  face, 
from  the  clear  gaze  of  those  guiltless  eyes. 

**  I  must  go,  Essie/'  he  said,  more  gravely  than  w&9  his 
wont.  **  My  uncle  is  very  ill — my  uncle  in  Hichmond, 
Virginia — my  sole  living  relative,  the  rich  stock-brdker, 
you  know.  I  had  a  letter  to-day  from  his  lawyer,  telling 
me  if  I  would  see  him  alive  I  must  hasten  South  at  onc«. 
There  never  was  much  love  between  us,  heaven  knowi% 
but  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  and  then  " — with  one  of 
his  old,  somewhat  heartless  laughs — *'  he  is  a  rich  man, 
and  I  am  his  prospective  heir.  If  I  lose  my  inheritance, 
I  will  be  an  object  of  compassion  indeed.  So  you  per- 
ceive I  must  go." 

*'  Yes,"  Estella  said,  slowly;  **  you  must  go.  But  you 
will  come  back?" 

**  Oh,  some  time — surely!"  the  young  man  said,  gayly 
crossing  over  to  the  piano;  "  but  Fm  afraid  not  very  soon. 
I  have  stayed  longer  than  I  intended — longer  than  1  should 
have  stayed,  in  fact — longer,  I  suppose,  than  I  will  ever 
stay  again.  New  York  is  my  home,  Essie — I  have  a 
thousand  ties  to  bind  me  there — and  so,  no  matter  how 
my  uncle  Wylder  leaves  his  fortune,  it  will  be  a  long 
time,  I  fear,  before  I  can  return  to  dear  old  Chelsea.  But 
you  must  not  quite  forget  me,  you  know;  and  when  1  get 
married — which  folly  1  expect  to  commit  before  very  long 
— you  must  come  to  Gotham,  and  make  me  and  my  wife  a 
long  visit.     You  will,  won't  you.  Cousin  Essie?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram  rattled 
over  the  keys  in  a  brilliant  prelude,  and  he  began  to  sing 
Gumpert's  little  cynical  song,  in  his  most  delightful  voice: 

** '  Smile  again,  my  dea,rest  love, 

Weep  not  that  I  leave  you; 
I  have  chosen  not  to  rove — 

Bear  it  though  it  grieve  you. 
See  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars 

Gleam  the  wide  world  over. 
Whether  near  or  whether  far. 

On  your  loving  roverl 


'its' 


Hh 


I  111 


« 


'  And  the  sea  has  ebb  and  flow — 
Wind  and  cloud  deceive  us; 

Summer  heat  and  winter's  snow 
Seek  us  but  to  leave  us. 


iff?' 

I  llil 


mii'       ',' 


■»"!• 


108  estella's  husband. 

Thus  the  world  grows  old  and  mew— 

Why  should  you  be  stronger? 
Long  have  I  been  true  to  you— 

Now  I'm  true  no  longerl 

**  *  As  no  longer  yearns  my  heart, 

Or  your  smiles  ensl»ve  me; 
Let  me  thank  you  ere  we  part 

For  the  love  you  gave  me. 
See  the  May  flowers  wet  with  dew 

Ere  their  doom  is  over. 
Should  I  not  return  to  you. 

Find  another  lover!'  " 

And  Esiella!  She  sat  still  as  stone,  her  hands  crossed 
apon  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  darkening  street  And 
this  was  the  end  of  all! 

**  Horrible  little  song,  isn't  it?"  Mr.  Bartram  said,  ris- 
ing from  the  piano.  *'  You  haven't  answered  me  yet, 
Essie.     You  will  make  me  that  visit,  will  you  riot?" 

**  When  you  are  married?" — how  strangely  her  Toice 
sounded,  faint  and  far-off  even  to  herself!  *'  When  are 
you  " — it  died  entirely  away. 

'*  Very  soon — I  think — I  hope.  Look,  Essie,  1  never 
showed  you  this  before." 

He  drew  from  beneath  his  vest  some' f here  a  locket, 
richly  inlaid  with  sparkling  stones,  and  touching  the  spring 
it  flew  open.  He  handed  it  to  her — not  looking  at  the 
white,  drawn  face. 

**  See,  Essie — my  darling,  and  my  bride  that  is  to  be!" 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  his  steady  voice — the  tremor 
of  a  deep,  passionate  love.  Estella  took  it  There  was 
still  light  enough  left  in  the  darkening  sky  for  her  to  see 
the  pictured  face. 

Such  an  exquisite  face  J  A  face  of  perfect  beauty— the 
fact  of  a  girl  not  much  older  than  herself,  perfec<.ly  paint- 
ed. A  darkly  beautiful  face — not  of  doubtful^  untormed 
prettiness,  like  her  own,  but  one  concerning  whose  exqui- 
site loveliness  there  could  be  no  two  opinions.  You  might 
not  choose  to  like,  but  you  could  not  fail  to  admire.  Won- 
derful eyes — large,  black,  luminous— looked  up  at  you; 
wonderful  waves  of  rich  black  hair  rippled  over  the  snowy 
shoulders;  and  the  low  brow,  a  mouth  like  a  rosebud,  a 
nose  that  was  simply  perfect,  tinted  oval  cheeks — that  waa 
what  Estella  saw.     Beneath   was  the  name  '*  Leonie,'* 


1 ,1.1 


estella's  husband. 


109 


She  looked  a  moment.  In  that  moment  the  beautiful  dark 
face  was  pictured  on  her  mind,  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Then  she  closed  the  locket,  and  handed  it  back 

"  It  is  beautiful!  I  wish  you  every  happiness,  Mr.  Bar- 
tram,  and — your  bride." 

Again  her  voice  failed.  She  was  so  young,  so  utterly 
unschooled,  and  Aunt  Helen  had  talked  such  terribly  fool- 
ish things.  The  door  opened,  and  Norah  came  in  to  light 
the  gas. 

**  Miss  Helen  is  down.  She  is  waiting  for  you  both  in 
the  dining-room,"  Norah  said,  briskly.  "  Her  headache 
is  better,  and  you  had  best  not  keep  her  waiting  dinner. " 

**  My  head  aches,"  said  Estella,  passing  swiftly  by  her. 
**  Ask  her  to  excuse  me.     1  don't  want  any  dinner. 

She  was  gone  like  a  flash.  Norah  lighted  the  gas,  and 
stared  blankly  after  her. 

^*  That  child  has  caught  cold.  She  is  as  hoarse  as  a 
raven.  You  haven't  been  keeping  her  in  a  draught,  I 
hope,  Mr.  Alwyn  Bar  tram?" 

*'  No,"  Alwyn  Bartram  replied,  a  second  sharp  pang 
shooting  through  the  heart  that  beat  beneath  the  jeweled 
locket,  as  he  turned  away  from  the  woman's  sharp  eyes 
and  left  the  room. 

And  up  in  her  own  chamber,  while  the  rainy  night  shui 
darkly  down,  Estella  Mallory  fell  on  her  knees  by  the 
bedside,  her  face  lying  on  her  hands,  as  if  she  never  cai*ed 
to  lift  it  again,  the  world  locked  out,  doing  battir  with 
her  shame  and  despair. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

LEONIE. 

A  CHARMINO  picture!  a  radiant  vision!  There  was  a 
shimmer  of  gold-colored  silk,  a  gleaming  of  opals,  a  misty 
cloud  of  rare  old  lace,  a  slender,  willowy  figure,  robed  like 
a  princess  in  a  fairy-tale,  a  dark  face  of  exquisite  loveli- 
ness, a  fall  of  rich  black  hair  crowned  with  a  circlet  oU  red 
gold — and  that  was  Miss  Leonie  De  Montreuil. 

A  low  hum  of  suppressed  admiration  ran  though  the 
crowded  rooms  as  she  appeared,  floating  in  her  golden 
robes  and  flashing  opals,  a  perfect  picture  of  youth  and 
boauty. 


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t|4 


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IS. 

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pi 


110 


estella's  husbanb. 


A  little  group  of  gentlemen,  hovering  aloof,  stopped 
their  flow  of  society  small-talk  to  stare  with  all  their  might. 

*'  The  little  Parisian  is  in  full  feather  to-night,*'  one  said; 
**  radiant  as  one  of  the  black-eyed  houris  of  the  Mussul' 
man's  paradise.     By  Jove!  old  Rutherford  has  taste!*' 

**  No  more  a  Parisian  than  you  are,"  said  a  second,  **  in 
spite  of  her  Frenchified  name.  She  was  born  and  bred 
here  in  New  York,  and  never  saw  Prance  until  within  the 
last  three  years.  Then  this  rich  uncle,  or  cousin  or  some- 
thing turns  unexpectedly  up,  wants  an  heir  or  an  heiress, 
sends  for  the  little  Leonie,  places  her  in  a  Parisian  convent 
to  be  polished  up,  and  finally  brings  her  back  here,  and 
leaves  her.  Political  business  brought  over  the  elegant 
Count  De  Montreuil,  and  took  him  back  in  a  hurry.  I 
fancy  he  is  not  over  and  above  devoted  to  his  fascinating 
little  ward,  since  he  was  so  willing  to  leave  her  behind. " 

"  She  wished  to  stay,*'  said  another;  **  whether  for  the 
sake  of  old  Rutherford's  countless  rupees,  or  Alwyn  Bar- 
tram's  handsome  face,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  Fools, 
both  of  them!  The  little  belle  has  no  more  heart  than  a 
grindstone. " 

'*  She  likes  Bartram,"  remarked  the  first  speaker,  de- 
cidedly; *'  and,  if  that  mythical  uncle  in  Virgmia  makes 
him  his  heir,  she  will  marry  him.  Where  is  Bartram? 
He  should  be  here  to  see  her  to-night. " 

*'  He  has  been  out  of  town  for  the  past  few  weeks,  on  a 
visit  to  some  friends  in  the  wilds  of  Massachusetts.  He  re- 
turned to-day.  I  met  him  this  afternoon  in  Broadway,  and 
he  told  me  he  was  en  route  for  Richmond.  The  stock- 
broking  uncle  is  sick — in  articulo  mortis — and  Alwyn  goes 
to  take  possession  of  his  fortune." 

*'  If  he  gets  it,"  said  another,  with  a  shrug.  **  *  There 
is  many  a  slip,'  and  in  this  case  there  happens  to  be  a  sec- 
ond heir.  But  his  case  with  the  little  De  Montreuil  lies  in 
a  nutshell.  If  he  gets  the  inheritance,  he  gets  hex ;  if  he 
doesn't,  he  doesn't.  I  shouldn't  mind  backing  old  Ruth- 
erford, ten  to  one,  if  you  want  to  make  a  book,  Roosevelt " 

Meantime,  the  object  of  all  this^  cold-blooded  discussion 
sailed  along  to  pay  her  respects  to  the  hostess  of  the  even- 
ing, serenely  unconscious.  She  saw  the  admiring  looks, 
she  heard  the  admiring  whispers,  but  she  was  so  used  to 
admiration  that  she  took  it  quite  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Her  perfect  beauty  and  her  exquisite  dress  made  her  al' 


estella's  husband. 


Ill 


it 


3r  al- 


ways a  sort  of  surprise — made  her  bloom  and  brightness 
ever  newr. 

"  I  had  almost  given  you  up,  Miss  De  Montreuil/'  her 
hostess  said;  ''  and  Ethel  has  been  fidgeting  her  life  out 
far  the  past  half  hour  lest  you  should  fail  to  come.  You 
will  find  her  in  the  boudoir,  waiting  as  impatiently  as  a 
stricken  lover." 

Miss  De  Montreuil  smiled  faintly.  She  was  a  very 
languid  little  beauty,  as  radically  and  unaffectedly  non- 
chalant as  a  duchess;  but  the  faint  smile  was  wondrously 
beautiful,  and  lighted  up  the  whole  dark,  exquisite  face. 

**  Mrs.  Manners  and  I  are  on  our  way  to  Clara  Leesom's 
birthnight  ball,"  said  she,  in  the  softest  and  most  silvery 
of  feminine  voices.  '*  We  are  very  late,  but  1  would  not 
on  any  account  have  missed  looking  in  upon  you.  How  is 
Ethel  to-day?  I  have  been  so  busy,  really,  I  have  had  no 
time  to  call  or  send. " 

*'  She  is  much  better — strong  enough  to  receive  her  moat 
intimate  friends  in  the  boudoir,  but  not  strong  enough  to 
appear  in  the  rooms  for  general  society.  They  told  her, 
Leonie,"  with  a  little  laugh  "  that  you  are  on  the  eve  of 
matrimony,  and,  as  somebody  is  a  particular  favorite  of  hers, 
she  is  all  anxiety  since. " 

The  fairy  belle  shrugged  her  pretty,  plump  shoulders  in 
very  French  fashion  indeed. 

*'  1  am  on  the  eve  of  marrying  Mr.  Rutherford,  I  sup- 
pose, and  somebody  means  Alwyn  Bar  tram.  The  world 
takes  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  settle  my  destiny.  1  must  go 
and  ease  her  anxious  mind.*' 

She  moved  away — a  walking  poem,  floating  in  her  shim- 
mering robes.  She  passed  down  the  long  room,  nodding 
and  smiling  right  and  left — a  dazzling  little  beauty  as  ever 
turned  the  heads  of  men. 

A  curtain  of  sea-green  silk  hung  over  the  pillared  arch- 
way at  the  further  extremity.  She  lifted  this  lightly,  and 
passed  at  once  into  an  inner  room. 

A  little  bijou  of  a  room,  all  cool  white  and  pale  green, 
lighted  by  dim  clusters  of  gas,  in  crystal  cups,  with  frail 
exotics  perfuming  the  air,  and  dim  white  statues  gleaming 
against  dusky  green  backgrounds. 

It  was  like  a  sea  nymph's  grot — an  ocean  cave — and  the 
pale  girl,  with  the  floatmg  yellow  hair,  who  lay  on  a  sofa 


m 


l|i 

'If'*', 


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i  u 


4 

■:i      !  -I 


113 


estella's  husband. 


"  iii 


in  a  cload  of  green  areophane,  lighted  dimly  with  milky 
pearls,  looked  not  unlike  some  deep-sea  siren. 

She  was  quite  alone  in  her  cool  little  nest,  and  started 
eagerly  up  at  sight  of  her  golden-rohed  visitor. 

°*  At  last!"  ehe  cried;  "  and  I  had  given  you  up!  At 
last,  Leonie;  and  how  late  you  are!" 

**  1  could  not  help  it,  dear,'*  Mias  De  Montreuil  said, 
sweetly,  taking  her  place  beside  her.  "  We  went  to  hear 
the  now  tenor  in  '  Lucrezia  Borgia,'  and  stayed  until  the 
end  of  the  opera.  Ah,  he  is  charming,  and  handsome  as 
an  angel  on  the  stage;  although  I  suppose,  like  the  rest 
of  these  people,  he  owes  half  his  beauty  to  wigs  and  paint 
We  are  on  our  way  now  to  Clara  Leesom's;  but,  of  course, 
disgracefully  late  as  we  will  be,  1  insisted  upon  looking  in 
lor  a  moment  to  see  you.  And  how  are  you  to-night, 
dear?'' 

**  Better,  but  a  little  tired  now.  My  illness  has  left  me 
weak  as  an  infant.  Leonie,  I  am  dying  to  ask  you  if  it  is 
true  about  you  and  Mr.  Rutherford?" 

**  Your  mother  told  me  you  were,"  Leonie  said,  adjust- 
ing her  bracelet.     "  If  what  is  true,  Ethel?" 

**  Oh,  you  know  well  enough!  It  is  the  talk  of  the 
avenue.     They  say  you  are  going  to  marry  him." 

'*  Do  they?    1  dare  say  they  do.     Well,  and  suppose  I 

*'  Oh,  Leonie!    And  Alwyn  Bartram?" 

"  My  love,  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Bartram  for  three  weeks. 
What  would  you  have?  One  can't  be  faithful  forever  to 
the  absent.  He  shouldn't  stay  away  so  long  if  he  wants  to 
keep  his  memory  green.  And  then,  Mr.  Rutherford — ah, 
words  fail,  my  dear,  to  tell  how  devoted  that  poor  old  man 
is!" 

She  laughed — the  sweetest  of  little  tinkling  laughs,  but 
hollow  as  ^  silver  bell. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  almost  indignantly. 

'*  And  you  are  engaged  to  Alwyn,  and  you  talk  like  thisJ 
Are  you  heartless,  Leonie,  as  they  say  you  are?" 

Leonie  shrugged  her  dimpled  shoulders  again. 

**  Do  they  say  so?  I  dare  say  they  are  right.  I  dare  say 
I  am.  As  to  being  engaged  to  Alwyn  Bartram,  1  am  not 
so  sure  of  that.  We  have  been  frightfully  serious  together 
— have  exchanged  pictures  and  rings,  and  all  that — have 
talked  more  nonsense,  and  vowed  more  vows,  than  1  care 


I* 


estella's  husband. 


113 


to  remember.  But  still — there  is  always  a  but,  you  see, 
Ethel — one  isn't  Mrs.  Bartram  yet;  and — ah,  well  I  the 
Butherford  diamonds  are  superb,  and  he  doesn^t  know  the 
depths  of  his  own  coffers.  The  temptation  is  strong,  and 
poor  little  Leonie  is  pitifully  weak." 

**  That  means,  then,  you  intend  to  throw  Mr.  Bartram 
over  for  the  wrinkled  old  millionaire  and  his  family  dia- 
monds?" 

"  How  painfully  matter-of-fact  you  are,  my  dearest 
Ethel!    Still,  it  is  best  in  these  cases.     Yes,  my  dear,  in 

6.ain  English,  1  am  very  strongly  tempted  to  throw  Mr. 
artram  over  for  Mr.  Rutherford.  The  one  is  young  and 
handsome  as  a  god — the  other  is  old  and  ugly  as  a  satyr; 
but,  oh,  my  Ethel!  he  counts  his  dollars  by  millions,  and 
dollars  are  the  glory  and  bliss  of  life!  What  a  shocked 
and  horrified  face  you  wear!  It  sounds  very  mercenary 
and  very  horrible,  I  dare  say,  but  one  may  as  well  tell  the 
truth.  You  see,  Ethel,  I  nave  known  what  it  is  to  be 
poor,  and  you  have  not,  and  that  makes  all  the  difference 
m  the  world.  1  have  worn  print  dresses,  and  shabby  bon- 
nets, and  old  shoes,  and  lived  in  stuffy  little  back  rooms, 
and  dined  on  weak  tea  and  smoked  herrings  before  my 
uncle  De  Montreuii  sent  for  me  to  France,  and  the  horror 
of  that  horrible  time  has  never  been  forgotten.  1  will 
never  be  poor  again,  Ethel — never,  never,  never!" 

"  You  need  not  be,  and  still  remain  true  to  the  man  you 
love.     For  you  do  love  Alwyn,  do  you  not,  Leonie?" 

Leonie  JDe  Montreuii  put  out  one  little,  dark  hand,  all 
a-glitter  with  diamonds  and  opals,  and  laid  it  in  that  of 
her  friend. 

**  They  say  I  am  heartless,  Ethel,  and  I  know  I  am  not 
like  you,  and  not  in  the  least  like  those  superhuman  girls 
one  reads  of  in  novels,  who  give  up  the  world  for  love;  but 
I  do— I  (/o  like  poor  Alwyn!  If  he  inherits  his  uncle's  fort- 
une, I  will  marry  him  gladly,  although  then  he  will  not  be 
half  so  rich  as  Mr.  Rutherford.  If  he  does  not,  1  never 
will!  No,  Ethel,  I  never  will!  I  can  not  be  a  poor  man's 
wife." 

**  No  need  to  be  poor.  He  has  his  art.  He  can  win  his 
way  to  fame  and  fortune." 

"  Ah,  bah!  when  both  our  heads  are  gray?  No,  no, 
Ethel,  that  will  never  do!  If  he  inherits  a  fortune  I  will 
be  his  wife;  if  he  does  not,  then  I  marry  Mr.  Rutherford. 


III 

II" 
lit 

It! 

li^' 


!  \i 

Mr 

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IV  ;il  '^  ii 


114 


estella's  husband. 


That  is  vrhy  I  have  remained  in  New  York.  I  am  ready 
for  either  fate.  I  must  make  my  own  future.  My  uncle 
De  M'^ntreuil  cares  very  little  for  me — cares  less  than  ever 
since  he  has  found  out  he  has  a  daughter  alive.'' 

"  A  daughter!    Is  it  possible?*' 

"  Komautic,  isn't  it?  out  quite  true,  and  here  in  Amer- 
ica somewhere.  When  quite  a  young  man,  and  foolish,  as 
young  men  are  apt  to  be,  he  fell  in  love  after  the  most  ap- 
proved fashion,  married,  and  ran  away  with  a  pretty,  pen- 
niless Yankee  bride.  He  was  Monsieur  Raoul,  a  teacher 
of  music  at  that  time,  with  very  little  hope  that  the  fam- 
ily inheritance  would  ever  be  restored  to  him.  But  it  was, 
and  with  the  rise  of  Louis  Napoleon,  he  arose,  too.  He 
left  his  wife,  and  went  back  to  France,  and  once  there — 
who  knows  how  it  was? — he  never  returned  to  her.  But, 
when  he  came  here  with  me  this  summer  he  sought  out 
her  friends,  found  she  was  dead,  but  had  left  a  daughter. 
That  daughter  the  indignant  friends  refused  to  restore  him 
— not  in  the  least  dazzled  by  his  wealth  and  his  title.  And, 
as  he  could  not  remain  to  enforce  his  rights,  he  has  re- 
turned to  France  without  her.  He  told  me  the  whole  story 
— less  the  names  of  the  parties;  and  ever  since  1  have  felt 
my  position  as  his  future  heiress  most  doubtful.  He  will 
return  and  find  his  daughter,  1  know;  and  where,  then,  is 
poor  Leonie?  No,  Ethel,  I  should  like  to  please  you,  to 
please  Alwyn,  to  please  myself;  but  1  can  not  marry  a 
struggling  artist!  His  fate  hangs  on  his  uncle's  will,  and 
that  is  speedily  to  be  decided  now.  He  is  back  in  the  city 
— Alwyn.  1  had  a  note  from  him  to-day,  and  expect  to 
meet  him  at  the  ball.  The  uncle  is  very  ill.  He  goes 
South  to-morrow.  As  soon  as  the  will  is  read,  I  shall 
know,  and  then — " 

She  paused,  rose  up,  shook  out  her  flashing  skirts,  and 
laughed  lightly. 

**  I  am  a  cold-blooded  wretch,  am  I  not,  my  dear,  en- 
thusiastic Ethel?  1  don't  deny  it.  Mr.  Bartram,  after  the 
fashion  of  loves  and  artists  adores  me  as  an  angel  of  light 
now.  If  1  fail  him,  1  will  sink  to  the  lowest  depths  of  in- 
famy in  his  estimation.  And  yet,  I  am  neither  so  good 
nor  so  bad  as  he  makes  me  out.  1  am  simply  true  to  the 
teachings  of  my  life — to  the  doctrine  of  society.  All  the 
nicest  girls  marry  for  money  nowadays.  They  leave  home 
on  the  same  principle  as  their  house-maids  leave  theirs — lo 


h 


ebtella's  husband. 


115 


better  themselves.  Oh,  what  long  speeches  1  have  been 
making,  and  what  a  stupid  talk  we  nave  had!  But  1  want 
you  to  know  me  as  I  am,  Ethel,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
world  I  don't  care  a  fillip!  We  won't  talk  of  this  any  more. 
We  will  hope  for  the  best.  I  may  marry  Alwyn,  after  all. 
And  now,  adieu,  and  mi  revoir!  My  chaperone  will  think 
I  am  lost." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  her  friend,  and  floated,  like  the 
fairy  she  was,  in  a  golden  mist  away  through  the  sea-green 
curtains  and  out  into  the  glare  and  flash  of  the  gas-lighted 
drawing-room,  that  was  the  only  heaven  she  knew  of  or 
cared  for.  Bet  tiful,  ele^rant,  heartless — a  creature  to  drive 
mankind  mad  for  love,  and  never  know  the  meaning  of  that 
sweetest  word  of  all  words  herself. 

Half  an  hour  later,  among  the  many  beauties  shining  re- 
splendent at  Miss  Leesom's  birth  night  ball,  floated  in  the 
beauty  of  the  season,  eclipsing  everything  around  her,  as  a 
meteor  eclipses  common  stars. 

She  floated  up,  in  her  sylph-like  way,  tc  the  daughter  of 
the  house,  and  murmured  sweetly  her  few  words  of  congrat- 
ulation appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

"  We  are  terribly  late,  1  know,"  she  said,  plaintively, 
**  but  we  went  to  hear  the  new  Italian  tenor,  and  then 
looked  in  at  poor,  dear  Ethel's.  She  is  much  better,  and, 
of  course,  1  lingered  for  a  chat. 

Every  one  is  here  ages  ago,  no  doubt?" 

"Every  one!"  the  young  lady  responded,  laughing. 
*'  Mr.  Rutherford  and  Mr.  AlwynBartram  included.  Mr. 
Rutherford  is  absorbed  in  whist  in  the  card-room  and  Mr. 
Bartram  is — " 

"  Here!"  said  a  voice  at  her  elbow. 

He  stepped  forward  as  he  spoke,  with  a  glow  on  his 
handsome  face,  as  ho  held  out  his  hand  to  Leonie. 

**  It  seems  centuries  since  we  met.  How  late  you  are, 
Leonie!    I  began  to  think  you  were  not  coming  after  all." 

Miss  Leesora,  with  a  conscious  smile,  had  glided  away  at 
once.  Alwyn  Bartram  drew  the  gloved  hand  oi  the  little 
belle  through  his  arm  with  the  air  of  one  having  the  right. 

**  You  received  my  note?  You  expected  to  meet  me 
here?"  he  said,  bending  above  her. 

**  Certainly,"  responded  Miss  De  Montreuil.  She  was 
infinitely  calm.    No  flush  had  arisen  to  her  clear  olive 


m 
III 

!  IM' 

It'' 

:M;t|i| 


?r 


'h 


116 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


\¥r)k\ 


cheek — no  added  sparkle  to  her  eye  at  sight  of  her  lorer. 
**  How  long  you  have  been  away,  Alwynr' 

**  Has  it  seemed  long  to  you,  Leonie?  Have  you  really 
missed  mer'*' 

*'  Of  course,"  with  one  of  her  Parisian  shrugs.  **  Are 
you  not  the  best  waltzer  on  my  list?  Apropos,  I  keep  the 
first  for  you  to-night.  Ani  you  positively  go  South  to- 
morrowi"' 

**  Without  fail.  My  un  'le  lies  dangerously  ill.  I  should 
have  been  on  my  way  now.  1  may  not  see  him  alive  as  it 
is.  But  1  could  not  go — 1  could  ?iot.  Leonie,  without  com- 
ing hero  to  see  you. " 

Miss  De  Moiitrouil  pressed  her  pretty  littb  patrician  nose 
into  her  bouquet — a  bouquet  of  rarest  exotics  sent  her  that 
afternoon  by  Mr.  Rutherford,  the  millionaire. 

**  Very  flattering,  but  very  foolish.  You  risk  your  in- 
heritance, do  you  not?  But,  perhaps,  you  have  discovered 
that  it  is  already  secured  to  you?" 

*'  Unfortunately,  no.  The  issue  is  still  doubtful.  I 
have  ofTended  my  uncle  by  rejecting  his  business,  and  he 
still  labors  under  the  impression  that  his  favorite  nephew, 
Robert  Bartram,  is  alive.  It  is  nine  jears  now  since  Rob- 
ert broke  wild  and  fled  from  home  and  friends,  but  some- 
where in  the  scheme  of  the  universe  hQmay  still  (3xist.  My 
chance  of  inheriting  my  uncle's  fortune  would  be  wretch- 
edly slight,  indeed,  if  he  ever  turned  up." 

**  Very  unfortunate  for  you,"  Miss  De  Montrerli  said, 
coolly;  "  beyond  that  inheritance  you  have  nothing  but 
your  art?" 

"  ^Nothing,  Leonie;  but  that  art  shall  yet  win  me  wealth 
and  fame.  And  you — oh,  my  darling!  you  will  be  equal 
to  either  fortune,  will  you  not?     You  will  not  fail  me?" 

He  looked  down  upon  her  for  the  first  time  with  a  pang 
of  dread  and  doubt.  He  had  drawn  her  away  from  the 
crowded  ball-room  into  a  dimly  lighted  conservatory,  where 
a  wilderness  of  camellias  and  magnolias  hid  them,  and  the 
air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  rose  and  jessamine.  It 
was  quite  deserted — only  the  pallid  P'loras  and  Cupids 
among  the  rose  and  acacia-trees  gleamed  about  them  like 
marble  ghosts. 

Miss  Le  Montreuil  leaned  lightly  against  a  tall  statne  of 
Hebe,  holding  forth  her  cup  of  ambrosia,  with  a  smile  on 
her  stone  face.     In  the  dim  light  she  made  a  rarely  lovely 


"iJtit  "»  f ' 


E8TELLA*8    HUSBAND. 


117 


picture,  her  shimmering  rohe  flashing  like  spun  gold,  her 
opals  glimmering,  her  graceful  little  head  drooping  for- 
ward, her  dark,  velvety  eyes  fixed  on  the  frail  blossoms  she 
held.  A  rarely  lovely  picture — one  any  mun  who  loved  her 
might  never  forget — one  that  haunted  Alwyn  Bartram  for 
weary  years  to  come  with  a  pang  more  bitter  than  death. 
He  loved  her  passionately — intensely.  You  could  see  it  in 
his  glowing  face,  in  his  burning  uyes,  in  the  flush  that 
mantled  hotly  his  dark  face.  He  towered  above  her — fairy 
sylph  that  she  was — tall,  strong,  black-browed,  a  fitting 
mate  for  her;  beautiful,  in  his  man's  beauty,  as  herself. 

**  You  love  me,  Leonie,  do  you  not?  Oh,  my  darling, 
say  it  again!  Nothing  will  ever  make  you  false  to  the  vows 
you  haro  plighted?  No  loss  of  fortune  will  ever  make  you 
false  to  me?  My  Leonie!  my  own!  tell  me  once  more  that 
you  love  me!" 

**  Hove  you!"  she  answered  faintly,  not  lifting  her  eyes. 

**  And  you  will  wait  for  me?  I  may  not  lose  this  fort- 
une, but  if  I  do  you  will  wait?  The  waiting  shall  not  be 
long.  I  feel  that  within  me  that  tells  me  I  am  destined  to 
achieve  success.  And  if  this  fortune  comes  to  me  at  once, 
then,  Leonie,  you  will  be  my  own  without  delay.  You  will 
bless  me  for  life  with  this  dear  hand?" 

He  caught  it  fast,  covering  it  with  rapturous  kisses. 

**  Yes,  Leonie  De  Montreuil  said,  '*  if  this  fortune  be- 
comes yours,  Alwyn,  I  will  be  your  wife.  Oh,  surely — 
surely  your  uncle  will  make  you  his  heir!" 

**  1  hope  so — 1  trust  so.  But  still,  if  not — still,  if  it  be- 
comes Robert  Bartram's — still  you  will  be  faithful  and  true 
— still,  my  dearest,  you  will  wait?" 

"  For  how  long?" 

"  A  year,  perhaps — two  at  most.  In  two  years  1  will 
have  a  name  to  offer  my  peerless  Leonie,  of  which  she  will 
be  proud,  or  I  will  burn  my  easel,  and  never  touch  paint- 
brush more.  Two  years  is  not  long  to  eighteen  and  seven- 
and-twenty.     My  own  dear  girl  will  be  true  to  her  lover?" 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  boldly,  her  great,  black  eyes 
flashing  with  a  look  that  was  almost  defiance  into  his  im- 
passioned face. 

*'  Alwyn,"  she  said,  **  1  will  never  marry  a  poor  man. 
1  do  love  you — Heaven  knows  1  do — and  I  hope  to  be  your 
wife!  But  1  am  not  what  you  think  me — what  your  en- 
thusiastic fancy  has  made  me.     I  also  love  wealth  and  lux- 


III 

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estella's  husband. 


urj,  fine  hoases,  fine  dresses,  rioh  jewels — all  the  glory, 
and  brightness,  and  luxury  of  life  I  I  should  go  luid,  or 
die,  as  a  poor  man's  wife.  Look  at  these  hands — were 
they  made  for  labor?  Look  at  me— am  I  of  the  clay  they 
make  household  drudges?  Inherit  your  uncle's  fortune, 
Alwyn,  and  1  will  marry  you  and  love  you  all  my  life. 
Fail,  and—" 

Her  voice  died  away;  her  eyes  fell;  the  color  that  had 
flushed  for  an  instant  mto  her  rounded  chooke  died  out  in 
ashen  pallor. 

She  dared  not  meet  the  earnest  face  above  her.  He 
stood  gazing  down  upon  her,  the  truth  slowly  coming  home 
to  him  for  the  first  time  that  the  woman  he  loved  was 
cold-blooded,  selfish  and  mercenary  to  the  core  of  her  heart. 

"  And  if  1  fail,"  he  said,  slowly—"  if  1  fail?  In  the 
hour  I  lose  my  fortune,  do  1  also  lose  my  bride?" 

**  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it!"  Leonie  broke  in,  hurriedly. 
**  Don't  let  us  think  of  it!  We  will  hope  for  the  best. 
You  will  inherit  this  dying  man's  wealth,  and  Leonie  will 
be  all  your  own.  Take  me  back  to  the  ball-room,  Alwyn; 
I  shall  be  missed." 

She  took  his  arm,  to  draw  him  away,  looking  up  with 
the  piteous,  im^  loring  face  of  a  naughty  child. 

**  Don't  wear  that  rigid  scowl,  please.  Don't  be  angry! 
If  you  go  to-morrow,  let  us  part  friends.  You  will  write 
to  me  at  once,  will  you  not?  You  know  how  impatient  1 
shall  be  to  hear  how  events  turn  out.  There  is  our  waltz. 
Come,  Alwyn — come!" 

**  I  shall  waltz  none  to-night,"  he  said,  moodily.  **  I 
only  came  here  to  see  you,  and  it  is  time  I  was  gone." 

''Then  let  us  say  good-bye  where  we  are,  and  part," 
Miss  De  Montreuil  responded,  readily,  holding  out  her 
hand.  **  Bon  voyage  and  all  success!  I  shall  count  the 
hours  until  I  hear  from  you." 

He  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms — a  fierce,  passion- 
ate, straining  clasp. 

**  Leonie,  Leonie!  be  true  to  me!"  he  cried.  ""  I  love 
you  more  than  my  life!  If  I  lost  you — great  heavens,  1 
should  go  mad  I  You  will  not  be  poor — 1  swear  it!  I  will 
work  for  you  like  a  galley-slave!  I  will  toil  my  fingers  to 
the  bone!    Oh,  my  love,  my  bride,  be  true!" 

"  I  will  be  true — if  I  can,"  she  added,  mentally.  **  For 
pity's  sake,  Alwyn,  let  me  go.     Some  one  comes !^ 


I" 


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18TELT.A'8    husband. 


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\'d. 


She  let  him  kies  her;  then  she  flitted  out  of  his  arms  like 
a  spirit,  and  was  gone.  Ba(;k  to  the  ball-room — back  to 
the  crashing  music — to  the  lights,  the  splendor,  the  admir- 
ation— all  that  life  held  that  was  wortii  living  for  to  hor. 

And  Alwyn  Bartram  stood  for  an  instant  alone,  amid 
the  tropical  plants,  and  pallid  statues,  with  the  same  dull 
sense  of  despair  at  his  heart  that  had  tilled  Estulla  Mai- 
lory's,  not  many  days  before. 

**  If  I  lose  my  fortune  1  lose  my  bride!"  ho  thought, 
with  that  dull  sense  of  horrible  pain.  **  She  loves  me,  but 
she  loves  wealth  better.     And  if  1  lose  hor — *' 

He  could  not  finish  the  sentence.  Ten  minutes  later, 
when  he  came  to  say  farewell  to  his  hostess,  she  almost 
screamed  aloud  at  sight  of  his  white,  drawn  face. 

'*  Good  heavens!  Mr.  Bartram,  you  are  ill!  You  look 
like  a  walking  corpse!** 

**  Yes,  1  am  ill,  he  said,  hoarsely.  **  Pray  excuse  my 
hasty  departure,  and — good-night.'' 

He  turned  abruptly  to  go.  As  he  did  so,  hu  caught  a 
last  glimpse  of  his  idol — not  waltzing,  but.  leaning  ou  the 
arm  of  old  Rutherford,  the  millionaire,  her  exquisite  face 
luminous  with  smiles.  He  ground  his  teeth  in  jealous 
rage,  and  a  second  later  was  out  under  the  chill  morning 
stars. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MISS  DE  MONTREUIL  DECIDES. 

The  October  afternoon  was  closing  down  rainy  and  raw 
as  Alwyn  Bartram  sprung  from  the  cab  that  had  conveyed 
him  from  the  station,  and  rang  the  door-bell  of  his  uncle's 
house. 

It  was  a  dull  old  house,  in  a  dull  back  street,  with  the 
noises  of  the  city  coming  far  and  faint — doubly  dull  this 
wet  October  twilight.  The  whole  front  at  the  house  was 
closed  and  dark,  and  the  young  man's  impatient  ring  had 
to  be  repeated  thrice  before  an  answer  came.  Then  the 
door  swung  back,  and  an  elderly  woman  looked  out. 

"  What  do  you  wish?"  was  her  sharp  query.      **  Mr. 
Wylder  is  very  sick,  and  can  see  no  one.     If  it's  a  letter, 
the  doctor  don't  allow  him  to  read  letters  any  more." 
It  isn't  a  letter,  madame,  and  Mr.  Wylder  will  see  m$. 


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ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


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Be  good  enough  to  tell  him  his  nephew,  Alwyn  Bartram, 
has  come.'* 

He  made  his  way  resolutely  into  the  dim  hall,  despite 
the  woman's  resistance.  But,  at  the  announcement  of  his 
name,  she  suddenly  subsided  into  civility. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I'm  sure,  but  I'm  Mr.  Wylder's 
nurse,  and  I  only  act  up  to  my  directions.  So  many  gen- 
tlemen try  to  see  him  on  business,  you  know,  sir,  and  he 
isn't  equal  to  business  now.  Please  walk  in;  he  expects 
you,  I  beliove." 

She  closed  the  door  again,  and  Mr.  Bar  tram  found  him- 
self in  a  long,  dully  lighted  entrance  hall,  bare  and  bleak, 
with  a  wide,  carpetless  stairway  at  the  further  eud. 

*'  How  is  Mr.  Wylder?"  he  asked;  "  any  better. ?*" 

**  No  better,  sir;  he  never  will  be  better  again  in  this 
world!  He  is  sinking  fast;  he  will  hardlv  last  the  month 
out  If  you  will  wait  here,  I  will  go  up  and  tell  him  you 
have  come." 

She  left  him  in  the  dark,  chill  hall,  and  ascended  the 
stairs.     Ir  ten  minutes  she  reappeared. 

**  Mr.  Wylder  will  see  you  at  once.  You  know  his  room, 
sir — please  come  up." 

The  young  man  ran  up  th^  stairs,  along  a  second  half- 
lighted  hall,  covered  with  a  faded  carpet,  and  tapped  at 
the  door  of  a  room  at  the  remote  extremity. 

A  weak,  shrill  voice  called  **  Come  in,"  and  opening 
the  door,  he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  sick  man, 
upon  whose  Sat  the  happiness  or  misery  of  his  whole  future 
life  depended. 

It  was  a  large  room,  but  chill  and  draughty,  and  lighted 
by  a  shaded  lamp.  A  wood  fire  burned  dully  on  the  hearth, 
a  threadbare  carpet  covered  the  floor,  cane-seated  chairs 
stood  primly  round  the  walls,  and  in  the  center  of  the  floor 
was  the  large,  old-fashioned  fonr-poster,  whereon  the  sick 
man  lay.  A  patch-work  quilt  covered  it,  a  round  table 
stood  near,  strewn  with  medicine  vials,  glasses,  gruel-bowls, 
and  a  slippery,  leathern-covered  arm-chair  stood  beside  it, 
close  to  the  bed.  Altogether  the  chamber  looked  dreary, 
and  comfortless,  and  cold,  and  impoverished,  and  betrayed, 
in  every  thread  of  its  worn  carpet,  in  every  creaky,  time- 
worn  chair  that  its  occupant,  if  a  rich  man,  was  a  miser. 

He  half -sat  up  in  the  bed  now,  supported  by  pillows. 
In  the  dim  light  the  old  face  looked  gaunt  and  pinched. 


^'t- 


J  / 


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estella's  husband. 


131 


vith  sunken  cheeks  and  hoUow  eyes.  But  the  hollow  eyes 
burned  keenly  still,  and  the  thin  lips  were  firmly,  obstin- 
ately compressed. 

"  So  you  have  come,*'  he  said,  fixing  those  glittering  eyes 
sharply  on  the  handsome  face  of  his  nephew;  "  you  have 
come,  Alwyn  Bartram,  and  in  time.  You  see  the  old  man 
is  down  at  last,  never  to  rise  again.  I  knew  you  would  be 
here,  and  in  time  for  the  death!" 

*'  Let  us  hope  better  things,  ancle,*'  the  young  artist 
said,  gently,  bending  above  him,  and  taking  the  cold,  limp 
hand  lying  loosely  on  the  counterpane.  **  You  are  far 
from  an  old  man  jet,  and  people  do  not  die  with  every 
illness.  Let  us  hope  a  few  weeks  will  see  you  restored 
again.** 

"  Sit  down,*'  responded  Mr.  Wylder,  harshly,  '*  and 
don't  be  a  hypocrite!  I  am  going  to  die,  and  you  know  it, 
and  you  wish  it." 

Alwyn  Bartram  dropped  his  hand,  and  recoiled  as  if  he 
had  been  cut  with  a  whip.  His  dark  face  flushed  deep, 
angry  red. 

"  I  do  not  wish  it!"  he  said.  **  1  have  never  wished  the 
death  of  my  worst  enemy.  Illness  gives  many  privileges, 
but  it  gives  you  no  right  to  insult  me,  Mr.  Wylder." 

*'  Well,  sit  down — sit  down!"  Mr.  Wylder  said,  testily, 
but  not  displeased.  '*  How  touchy  the  boy  is!  Like  his 
father  before  him — proud  and  high-stomached.  There! 
take  a  seat,  and  don't  let  a  sharp  word  from  the  old  man 
mount  you  on  your  high  horse.  If  you  did  wish  for  my 
death  it  would  be  nothing  unnatural — nothing  out  of  the 
ordinary  course.  The  heir's  feet  always  ache  to  stand  in 
the  dead  man's  shoes." 


«( 


I  have  never  looked  forward  to  your  death  or  your 
wealth.  Uncle  Wylder,"  Alwyn  said,  rather  coldly. 
*'  Your  generous  allowance  has  amply  sufficed  for  every 
want,  and  I  am  not  ambitious — in  that  way,  at  least.  Live 
a  score  of  years  if  you  can,  and  enjoy  the  money  you  have 
earned;  no  one  will  rejoice  more  heartily  than  1." 

"  Well,  well,  well,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  We  will 
speak  of  yourself.  What  have  you  been  doing  since  I  saw 
you  last?" 

*'  Much  the  same  as  usual.  Nothing  of  any  great  im- 
portance, I  am  afraid." 


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122 


estella's  husband. 


**  And  our  wonderful  art — our  divine  profession — in 
which  we  were  to  achieve  such  miracles — what  of  that?" 

The  young  man  reddened  again  at  the  sneer^  this  tinze 
not  without  a  sense  of  guilt. 

**  The  miracles  are  still  unachieved.  I  paint,  but  my 
paintings  are  rejected.  Yet  still  I  hope  I  will  one  dav  be 
a  painter.'' 

**  A  modern  Raphael,  no  doubt,*'  the  old  man  said,  with 
bitter  sarcasm.  *'  Permit  me  to  offer  my  congratulations 
beforehand.  With  such  brilliant  hopes  of  speedy  fame  and 
fortune,  old  Wylder,  the  money-grubbing,  miserly  stock- 
broker's wealth  can  matter  little  to  you.  It  sets  my  mind 
at  rest  to  know  your  future  is  secured,  and  leaves  me  free 
to  follow  my  own  inclinations.'' 

"  You  are  always  free,"  Alwyn  Bartram  said,  though 
his  heart  sunk  within  him.  **  The  wealth  you  have 
amassed  honorably,  in  the  course  of  a  long  life,  is  certainly 
yours,  to  dispose  of  as  you  choose.  You  have  been  very 
gi  od  to  me.  Leave  it  as  you  may,  I  have  no  right  to  be 
anything  but  grateful." 

"  Ah,  philosophic,  I  see!  How  coolly  the  young  men  of 
the  present  day  take  the  ups  and  downs  of  life!  Mt.  Al- 
wyn Bartram  will  scarcely  miss  what  he  values  so  lightly." 

"  You  are  determined  to  misunderstand  me,  uncle," 
the  young  man  said,  repressing  his  anger  by  an  effort; 
**  but  you  ahoays  misunderstood  me.  I  suppose  I  am  to 
conclude,"  looking  him  full  in  the  eyes  "  that  Robert 
Bartram  is  your  heir?" 

"  If  Robert  Bartram  be  alive,"  the  old  man  said,  slowly 
— "yes." 

On,  Leonie!  His  thoughts  went  back  to  her  as  he  had 
seen  her  last,  bright,  beautiful,  heartless,  with  the  sharp- 
est pang  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life.  "  If  your  uncle  leaves 
you  his  fortune,  I  will  be  your  wife;  if  not — " 

Alwyn  Bartram  turned  very  pale,  but  his  dark,  resolute 
eyes  met  those  of  the  old  man  on  the  bed  without  flinch- 
ing. 

**  Your  fortune  is  your  own,  Mr.  "Wylder.  You  have 
every  right  to  leave  it  to  your  favorite  nephew.  For  me, 
I  am  hardly  surprised.     I  think  I  expected  this." 

**  There  is  still  a  chance,"  the  sick  man  said,  eagerly. 
**  I  can  make  a  new  will,  and  Robert  Bartram  was  never 
my  favorite  nephew.     Give  up  this  nonsensical  art;  make 


/ 


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*^^ 


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n 


estella's  husband. 


133 


slowly 


have 
me. 


9,  bonfire  of  your  easel  and  paint  brushes;  take  to  my  bus- 
iness, and — " 

He  stopped  short  His  nephew  had  made  an  imperious 
gesture  with  hi?  hand. 

*'  I  will  never  give  up  my  art!  It  is  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  else  in  the  world — save  one.  I  can  never  take  to 
your  business.  I  would  be,  indeed,  what  you  called  me 
when  I  entered  this  room — a  hypocrite — if  I  promised  that. 
Let  Robert  Bartram  take  your  wealth,  if  Robert  Bartram 
be  alive,  but  I  will  never  give  u; )  my  profession  while  my 
fingers  can  wield  a  brush!*' 

The  dogged  resolution,  characteristic  of  the  race  they 
sprung  from,  looked  invincibly  out  of  the  defiant  eyes  of 
both. 

"  Be  it  so,  then!"  cried  Mr.  Wylder,  setting  his  teeth. 
"  You  have  chosen.  The  will  that  gives  all  to  Robert 
Bartram  is  made;  that  will  shall  stand,,  For  you,  you  lose 
everything — your  yearly  allowance  and  all." 

Alwyn  Burtram  bowed,  still  with  that  fixed,  resolute  face. 

"  And  if  Robert  never  appears?"  he  asked,  steadily. 

**  In  that  case,'*  said  Mr.  Wylder,  coldly,  "  the  wealth 
shall  not  go  out  of  the  family.  For  the  space  of  one  year, 
vigorous  search  and  inquiry  shall  be  made  for  the  missing 
man.  If,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  he  appears,  all  shall  be 
his.  All!  If  he  fails  to  appear,  then,  Alwyn  Bartram, 
having  no  other  living  kin,  it  goes  to  you,  undeserving  as* 
you  are.  I  am  iiot  of  the  sort  that  found  asylums  and  en- 
dow hospitals.     But  Robert  Bartram  will  be  found." 

**  Have  ^'ou  any  reason  for  thinking  so?" 

**  None,  except  the  old  axiom  that  bad  shillings  always 
come  back.  And  now,  as  I  see  by  the  clock  yonder  it  is 
time  for  my  supper  and  composing  draught,  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  ring  the  bell  for  the  nurse,  and  leave  me. 
Your  old  room  is  prepared.  How  long  do  you  mean  to 
stay?    Until  all  is  over?" 

"  I  will  stay  until  you  are  better  or — " 

**  Dead.  I  understand.  Vwy  well;  but  remember,  my 
will  is  made.  No  act  of  yours  now — no  waiting,  no  devo- 
tion—can alter  it.  Robert  Bartram  takes  precedence  of 
you.  I  leave  you  nothing — nothing — not  the  price  of  a 
mourning  ring." 

**  You  are  exceedin^y  candid.     Still,  I  will  stay." 

He  rang  the  bell.     The  nurse  appeared. 


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BSTELLA'8    HUSBAND. 


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ill! 


•*  Good-night,  uncle!"  he  said,  kindlv,  pausing  an  in- 
stant by  the  bedside  on  his  way  out.  **  1  wish  you  a  good 
night's  rest." 

But  the  sick  man  turned  away  his  head  sullenly,  and  his 
nephew  quitted  the  chamber  and  went  straight  to  his  own. 

So  it  was  all  over,  and  he  knew  the  worst.  He  sat  down 
in  his  shabby  little  room,  drew  writing  materials  before 
him,  and,  without  a  moment's  delay,  began  the  promised 
letter  to  Leonie  De  Montreuil. 

Decision,  resolution,  were  the  young  man's  character- 
istics.    He  told  hor  the  truth  at  once. 

•*1  have  lost  all,"  he  wrote,  with  tragical  intensity — 
•*  even  my  yearly  allowance.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life 
nothing  remains  to  me  but  my  art.  I  am  penniless — a 
worker  for  my  daily  bread.  Well,  be  it  so — that  way 
honor  lies.  My  future  is  my  own  to  make,  and  it  shall  be 
one  my  Leonie  will  be  proud  of.  Only  wait,  my  darling. 
Be  true  and  faithful  for  a  little  while;  all  will  come  right 
in  the  end.  I  remain  here  until  the  old  man  is  better  or 
dead;  then  back  to  New  York,  to  love,  to  you,  and  my 
glorious  idol — Art.  Next  winter  1  shall  send  a  picture  to 
the  Exhibition  that  must  succeed.  Write  to  me,  my  own, 
my  dearest,  and  let  me  see  the  precious  words  that  tell  my 
Leonie  will  wait  for  her  adoring  lover." 

Leonie  De  Montreuil  sat  alone  in  her  room — a  room 
beautiful  and  luxurious  as  its  beautiffil  and  luxurious  oc- 
cupant. She  sat  by  the  window,  still  wearinc;  her  morning 
neglige,  although  the  October  gloaming  was  settling  down 
over  the  avenue. 

She  lay  back  in  her  cushioned  chair,  two  open  letters  in 
her  lap,  and  an  expression  of  unmitigated  faulkiness  on  her 
dark  face.  One  little,  slippered  foot  beat  an  angry  tattoo 
on  the  carpet,  and  the  slender  black  brows  were  drawn  in 
an  impatient  frown. 

**  And  after  all  my  waiting,  after  all  my  hoping,"  she 
thought,  bitterly,  "  this  is  the  end.  Nothing  out  disap- 
pointment on  either  hand." 

There  was  a  soft  tap  at  the  door. 

**  Come  in,  Clara,"  she  said,  in  French;  **  the  house  is 
thine  own." 

The  chamber  door  opened  slowly,  and  her  friend  and 
hostess,   Mrs.    Manners,   a  pretty  young  matron,  swept 


M 


estella's  husband. 


IDS 


in,  in    rustling   dinner-dress,   ribbons  fluttering,   jewels 
sparkling. 

"Not  dressed  yet?*'  she  said;  *'  not  even  commenced, 
and  past  six,  my  dear  Leonie!  Ah,  letters!  No  bad  news, 
I  trust?'' 

*'  As  bad  as  bad  can  be,"  Leonie  said,  bitterly.  *'  1  am 
the  most  unfortunate  girl  alive,  I  think.  Turn  which  way 
I  will,  there  seems  nothing  but  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment for  me." 

Mrs.  Manners  threw  herself  into  afauteuil,  and  drew  out 
her  watch. 

"  An  hour  yet  until  the  dinner-bell  rings.  1  am  glad  1 
dressed  early.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  m' amour.  Who  are 
your  odious  correspondents?" 

'*  Count  De  Montreuil  and — Alwyn  Bariram." 

"  Ah,  Alwyn  Bartram!  And  what  does  our  handsome 
artist  say  for  himself?  Is  the  rich  uncle  dead,  and  ths 
*  curled  darling  of  the  gods '  disinherited?" 

'*  Yes,  he  is  disinherited.     All  goes  to  a  distant  cousin." 

"  Robert  Bartram — mad  Robert.  1  knew  him  once. 
Poor  Alwyn!     What  will  become  of  him  now?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  to  work  woLders — to  win  for  himself  an  im- 
mortal name,  and  wealth,  and  glory,  with  a  few  tubes  of 
paint  and  a  few  yards  of  canvas!  I  have  no  patience  with 
such  ridiculous  nonsense.  Rubens  and  Raphael  died  along 
ago,  and  the  race  of  immortals  died  with  them.  When 
Mr.  Bartram  has  crows' -feet  and  gray  hairs  he  may  pos- 
sibly have  achieved  a  decent  competence,  if  he  has  the  tal- 
ent he  gives  himself  credit  for.     As  it  is — " 

The  young  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  deliberately 
tore  his  letter  in  two. 

*'  And  the  other?    What  says  the  stately  count?" 

"  That  he  is  coming  back  to  America  to  search  for  his 
lost  daughter.  A  pleasant  prospect  for  me  !  He  will  find 
her,  of  course.  She  will  be  his  heiress,  his  idol,  and  I — 1 
will  be  the  companion,  the  poor  relation — one  step  higher 
than  mademoiselle's  maid!" 

She  seized  the  second  letter  fiercely,  and  tore  it  also  into 
fragments,  as  she  spoke. 

There  was  a  soft  rap;  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  face 
of  Aglae,  Miss  De  Montreuil's  maid,  appeared. 

The  French  girl  held  in  her  hand  a  magnificent  bouquet 
of  rarest  exotics. 


If! 

hi 

II' 
•  If 


II  :' 


\ 


jj.ill 


126 


estella's  husband. 


'■'fV 


t"-: 


**  With  Monsieur  Eutherford's  compliments/*  she  said, 
placing  it  before  her  mistress.  '*  When  will  mademoiselle 
DC  pleased  fco  dress?" 

**  In  half  an  hour,  Aglae.     You  may  go." 

She  lifted  the  bouquet,  her  dark  eyes  sparkling.  The 
bright  iittle  brunette  was  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  but 
even  in  this  her  taste  was  artificial.  Only  the  frailest  and 
costliest  hot-house  blossoms  pleased  her  luxurious  eye. 

**  Beautiful!  Are  they  not?''  she  said,  inhaling  their 
rich  fragrance.     ''  Mr.  Eutherford  has  exquisite  taste." 

**  Or  his  florist,"  Mrs.  Manners  said.  '"  But  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford's taste  is  undisputed — in  some  things.  He  admires 
you,  my  pretty  Leo^iie.  After  all,  let  uncle  and  artist  both 
fail,  and  Leonie  De  Montreuil  need  never  sink  into  playing 
second  fiddle.  There  are  not  a  dozen  wealthier  men  in 
wide  America,  my  husband  says,  than  William  Ruther- 
ford." 

There  was  a  pause.  Miss  De  Montreuil  flung  the  torn 
fragments  of  her  letters  contemptuously  away,  and  bent 
her  face  above  the  tropical  blossoms. 

"  He  dines  here  to-day?"  ahe  said. 

'*  Yes.  He  haunts  this  house  like  a  shadow  of  late. 
All's  not  lost  that's  in  danger,  Leonie.  The  wife  of  old 
Rutherford,  the  millionaire,  will  be  a  lady  to  be  envied." 

**  Ah,  but  he  is  old  Eutherford,"  Leonie  said,  plaint- 
ively, "  and  1  don't  like  old  men." 

**  Of  course  not;  but,  you  see,  unfortunately  one  can't 
have  everything  in  this  lower  world.  If  one  likes  unlim- 
ited diamonds  and  pocket-money,  a  box  at  the  opera,  the 
best  metropolitan  society,  a  villa  in  the  Highlands,  a  cot- 
tage on  the  Hudson,  a  brown- stone  palace  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
one  must  be  content  to  endure  a  few  drawbacks.  If  one 
prefers  an  artist,  young,  handoome,  clever,  penniless,  a 
shabby  tenement  on  the  east  side,  print  dresses,  and  a  din- 
ner of  hash  and  weak  tea  at  high  noon,  why  one  can  have 
that,  too.  Only,  if  our  friends  cut  us  dead,  and  love  flies 
out  of  the  window  after  the  honey-moon,  and  our  beauty 
withers,  and  we  find  ourselves  an  object  of  compassion  to 
gods  and  men,  we  have  no  right  to  complain.  We  have 
made  our  own  election,  and  must  abide  by  it." 

There  was  blank  silence.  Miss  De  Montreuil  was  look- 
ing steadfastly  out  of  the  window.  Mrs.  Manners  a  second 
time  glanced  at  her  watch. 


in 


estella's  husband. 


137 


Half  past  six.  Really,  Leonie,  yonr  maid  will  not  have 
time  to  do  herself  justice  this  evening.  I  will  go  and  send 
her  up  at  once.  Look  your  prettiest,  and  wear  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford's flowers,  and  be  as  sensible  when  he  takes  you  in  to 
dinner  as  it  is  the  nature  of  eighteen  to  be.  For  the  pres- 
ent, adieu!'' 

Mrs.  Manners  tripped  lightly  away,  and  sent  Mile.  Aglae 
upstairs  at  once.  She  was  very  fond  of  her  pretty  guest, 
and  the  rich  Rutherford  was  a  remote  connection  of  her 
own. 

*'  I  hope  she  will  have  sense,"  she  thought,  as  she  sailed 
into  the  drawing-room  to  receive  her  guests.  **  I  hope  she 
won't  be  silly  and  sentimental.  And  1  don't  thinK  she 
will." 

The  dinner-bell  was  clanging  forth  its  summons  as  Miss 
De  Montreuil  floated — she  always  floated — into  the  gas- 
lit  drawing-room. 

Very  pretty  she  looked  in  her  pink  silk  dinner-dress — 
the  color  of  strawberry  ice,  with  pearls  in  her  rich  black 
hair,  and  eyes  like  ebon  stars.  A  cluster  of  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford's waxen  flowers  nestled  amid  the  foamy  lace  of  her 
corsage,  and  Mr.  Rutherford's  old  eyes  absolutely  lighted 
up  as  he  recognized  them. 

He  came  toward  her,  and  took  possession  at  once,  as  one 
having  the  right — a  short,  stout,  red-faced  old  man  of 
sixty,  with  a  protruding  under  lip  and  two  or  three 
double  chins. 

"  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  whispered  an  envious  adorer, 
hovering  in  the  distance — '*  Venus  and  Vulcan,  Miranda 
and  Caliban,  May  and  December!" 

His  companion  laughed. 

*'  Don't  be  slanderous.  Is  it  a  match,  I  wonder?  1 
thought  Mr.  Bartram  was  first  favorite  there?" 

**  Mr.  Bartram  has  been  out  of  to^n  over  a  week.  Miss 
De  Montreuil  is  a  '  girl  of  the  period. '  How  can  she  pos- 
sibly remain  faithful  to  an  absent  lover  so  long?" 

"  Don't  be  sacrastic.  I  think  your  May  and  December 
will  make  an  eminently  suitable  pair.  She  has  no  more 
heart  than  a  mill-stone,  that  girl.  There  she  goes  on  old 
Rutherford's  arm  in  to  dinner." 

"  I  pity  old  Rutherford.     Come." 

Miss  De  Montreuil  and  her  companion  were  very  silent 
all  though  dinner.     Mr.  Rutherford  did  not  understand 


III 

li'- 


(i 


#;' 


i 

,1; 


111! 


'    198 


estella's  husband. 


:,'   1, 


the  small-talk  of  sooiety,  and  the  pretty  brunette  was  e?er 
too  languid  to  converse  much. 

But  all  through  the  meal  his  eyes  wandered  to  her  ex- 
quisite face,  with  a  doting  infatuation  only  to  be  seen  in 
the  eyes  of  old  men  making  idiots  of  themselves. 

*'  I  am  gJud  you  wear  my  flowers/'  he  said,  in  a  fat 
whisper.         1  hardly  expected  it.  *' 

'*  Ko?  But  they  are  so  pretty,  and  I  am  very  fond  of 
flowers." 

They  had  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford had  drawn  the  little  belle  to  a  remote  sofa  just  big 
enough  to  hold  both.  A  young  lady  at  the  piano  was  sing- 
ing a  noisy  operatic  song,  under  cover  of  which  more  than 
one  flirtation  was  carried  on. 

**  Are  you?  Ah,  how  1  envy  the  flowejs!  If  I  thought 
it  would  give  you  a  moment's  pleasure^all  the  c0nserva- 
tories  in  New  York  would  be  at  your  service." 

**  You  are  very  good." 

Miss  De  Montreuil  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  She  felt  what 
was  coming,  and  her  resolution  y/iiV/A^  give  way  if  she  looked 
in  that  vulgar  red  face. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  have  come  here  to-night?  Why  I 
accept  every  invitation  to  this  house?  Why  1  am  never 
happy  out  of  it  of  late?" 

^'  How  should  1?" 

**  Because  you  are  here!"  burst  forth  the  millionaire; 
**  because  I  am  madly  in  love  with  you,  beautiful  Leonie, 
and  want  you  for  my  wife!" 

There  it  was!  Loonie's  heart  seemed  to  stand  stock 
still,  and  she  felt  herself  growing  cold  all  over.  The  odious 
red  face  was  very  near  her  own  now. 

*'  Tm  an  old  man.  Miss  De  Montreuil,  but  1  am  also  a 
rich  man,  and  I  lay  my  heart  and  my  fortune  here  at  your 
feet.  I  will  only  live  to  gratify  your  every  whim — 1  will 
be  your  slave,  your  worshiper — my  gold  shall  flow  like 
water  at  your  bidding.     Only  say  you  will  be  my  wife!" 

His  hot  breath  was  on  her  cheek — his  hateful  face  al- 
most touched  her  own.  Leonie  De  Montreuil  turned  for 
an  instant  so  deathly  sick  with  repulsion  that  her  parted 
lips  refused  to  obey.  And  yet  the  bad,  ambitious  purpose 
within  her  never  faltered. 

**  Speak!"  the  old  man  said.  '*  Some  one  may  come. 
Speak,  and  tell  me  you  consent.     Promise  to  be  my  wife. " 


estella's  husband. 


139 


Some  one  was  coming — Mrs.  Manners.  Leonie  found 
her  voice  by  an  efTort. 

**  You  are  very  good/'  she  repeated,  shrinking  back  a 
little  as  she  said  it,  **  and  I  promise.     I  \fill  be  your  wife.'' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

**  OH,    MY  amy!   mine   NO   MORE!" 

A  SUNLESS  and  gusty  November  day  late  in  the  month, 
the  dead  leave??  whirling  in  wild  drifts  before  the  chill  wind, 
a  threatening  o(  snow  in  the  loaden  air.  A  dull  and  cheer- 
less November  afternoon,  the  black  sky  low-lying,  a  wail 
of  coming  winter  in  the  sobbing  blast  tearing  through  the 
trees.  And  on  this  desolate  autumn  afternoon  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Mn  Wylder,  the  wealthy  stock-broker,  was 
laid  in.  its  native  clay. 

*'  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust!"  The  clergyman's  teeth 
chattered  in  his  head  as  he  rattled  over  the  burial  service, 
and  the  group  gath(3red  around  the  grave,  while  the  sods 
clattered  down,  shivered  in  their  great-coats.  There  were 
not  many  mourners — the  miserly  stock-broker  had  made 
but  few  friends.  Foremost  among  those  few  stood  the  dead 
mail's  nephew — the  rejected  heir,  his  handsome  face  very 
pale  and  grave,  the  wind  blowing  back  his  dark  hair  as  he 
stood  liat  in  hand.  Disinherited  as  he  was,  he  was  yet, 
generous  enough  to  be  sincerely  sorry  for  the  old  man,  his 
faole  living  relative,  and  hitherto  his  kindest  friend. 

The  funeral  over,  Mr.  Bartram  made  no  longer  delay  in 
the  Southern  city.  There  was  nothing  now  to  detain  him 
there,  and  he  was  feverishly  impatient  to  get  back  to  New 
York,  to  love,  to  Leonie.  He  had  heard  f  i  om  her  but  once 
— the  briefest  of  brief  notes,  in  answer  to  that  first  impas- 
sioned letter.  She  was  sorry  for  his  ill-fortune;  she  hoped 
his  bright  dreams  of  future  greatness  might  be  realized;  she 
hoped  his  uncle  might  yet  relent,  and — that  was  all.  There 
was  no  promise  of  fidelity,  no  word  of  love  or  cheer.,  no  as- 
surance that  she  was  ready  to  wait  even  one  poor  year.  It 
closed  coldly  and  abruptly,  and  ao  other  letter  had  fol* 
lowed  it. 

Alwyn  Bartram  reached  New  York,  and  went  to  hie? 
Jodgings  at  once  to  change  his  dress,  preparatory  to  calling* 
:ipon  Miss  De  Montreiul.     A  pile  of  letters  lay  awaiting 


III 


lit. 

m 


m 


I* 

! 


1;^  ;    - 
r'.r  . 


;.  1: 


»>  .  ■'1'''  > 


/j;f.r 


»?"'■  -^  if 


130 


estella's  husband. 


him — chiefly  duns.  Ill  news  flies  apace,  and  already  the 
tailor  and  the  bootmaker,  and  the  florist  and  tho  jeweler, 
were  sendiut;  in  their  liiitlo  reminders  to  the  discarded  heir. 
Some  half  dozen  cards  of  invitation  were  there,  too — one 
to  a  conversazione  at  Mrs.  Leesom's  for  that  very  night. 
He  flung  the  duns  aside,  in  angry  impatience,  and  began 
his  evenmg  toilet  at  once. 

**  *  And  the  spoilers  came  down!'  How  soon  the  vult* 
ures  alight  on  the  dead  carrioni  It  is  no  longer  Mr.  Bar- 
tram,  the  prospective  heir  to  the  Richmond  stock-broker's 
wealth,  but  Alwyn  Bartram,  the  impoverished  artist,  whom 
those  gentlemen  dun.  I  begin  to  And  out  the  pleasantness 
of  poverty  very  soon.  I  suppose  I  must  give  up  these  apart- 
ments with  the  rest,"  glancing  around  the  elegant  rooms, 
**  and  play  Sybarite  no  longer.  It  must  be  bread  and  poor 
beef,  and  an  attic  chamber,  and  a  threadbare  coat  for  the 
future.  No  more  little  suppers  at  Delmonico's;  no  more 
lunches  at  the  Maison  Doree;  no  more  the  opera,  diamonds 
to  give  and  to  uear;  no  more  party-going  or  a  faultless 
taste  in  horseflesh.  No  more  the  old  life — nothing  but  hard 
work  for  the  next  twelve  months  at  least.  Well,  so  that 
Leonie  is  true,  that  fate  has  no  terrors  for  me.  How 
strange  she  has  not  written — not  one  of  my  letters  an- 
fTer^i    Surely,  she  is  ill  or  out  of  town!'' 

No;  Miss  De  Montreuil  was  neither.  Mr.  Bartram  dis- 
covered that,  when,  an  hour  later,  he  stood  on  Mrs.  Man- 
ners's  marble  doorstep,  she  was  well  and  still  in  town, 
but  "  not  at  home." 

He  remembered  afterward  the  odd  look  with  which  the 
servant  regarded  him  as  he  said  it,  but  he  turned  away 
carelessly,  leaving  his  card. 

"It  is  only  a  question  of  an  hour  or  two,"  he  said  to 
himself.     **  She  is  certain  to  be  at  Mrs.  Leesom's." 

But  again  he  was  disappointed.  When,  a  few  hours 
later,  looking  wonderfully  handsome  and  interesting  in  his 
mourning,  Mr.  Bartram  presented  himself  in  Mrs.  Lee- 
som's elegant  drawing-room,  he  saw  hosts  of  people  he 
knew,  but  no  Leonie. 

"  She  is  always  late;  she  will  be  here  presently,"  he 
thought. 

The  disinherited  heir  found  that  his  story  had  preceded 
him,  and  was  forced  to  listen  to  speeches  of  condolence 
light  and  left.    Bat  the  handsome  face  was  so  infinitely 


V'  !" 


istella's  husband. 


191 


calm  and  serene  that  people  began  to  think  their  condo- 
lences a  little  out  of  place. 

His  placid  countenance  only  clouded  for  the  first  time 
when  midnight  came  and  his  black-eyed  enchantress  still 
appeared  not  to  light  up  the  rooms  with  her  beauty. 

"  How  very  late  Miss  De  Montreuil  is  to-night!"  he  said, 
carelessly,  to  Clara  Leesom.  **  And  yet  one  invariably 
finds  her  here." 

Miss  Leesom  turned  suddenly  round  upon  him,  with  a 
broad  stare. 

*'What!"  she  exclaimed.  *' Is  it  really  possible  you 
don't  know?    Why,  1  thought  of  all  people — " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  coloring  a  little. 

A  dull,  quick  pang  of  apprehension  shot  through  the 
heart  of  the  lover.  He  was  right,  then.  Something  had 
befallen  his  idol. 

**  Nothing  has  happened,  1  trust?"  he  said,  fixing  his 
eyes,  with  a  powerful  glance,  upon  the  young  lady's  em- 
barrassed face.     '*  Miss  De  Montreuil  is  well? 

"  Perfectly  well,  I  believe;  only —  Is  it  really  possible, 
Mr.  Bartram,  that  you  have  not  heard?" 

His  heart  was  plunging  like  a  frantic  courser  against  his 
side,  and  his  voice  was  not  quite  under  his  control. 

**  I  have  heard  nothing.  Remember,  1  have  but  just 
returned  to  the  city,  within  the  past  few  hours.  I  called 
upon  Miss  De  Montreuil,  but  she  was  not  at  home." 

"Ah!"  Clara  Leesom  said,  and  there  was  a  world  of 
meaning  in  the  brief  ejaculation.  "  Miss  De  Montreuil  is 
invisible  to  most  of  her  friends  just  now.  And  you  really 
do  not  know?  Yoii,  of  all  people!  How  very  odd!  I 
took  it  for  granted  every  one  knew  it." 

**  Knew  what  ?  For  Heaven's  sake.  Miss  Leesom,  what 
do  you  mean?  Surely,  surely,"  as  a  horrible  pang  of  doubt 
shot  through  him,  "  she  has  not  gone  back  to  France?" 

The  young  lady  laughed. 

**  Oh,  dear,  no!  quite  the  reverse.  She  is  a  fixture  in 
New  York  now,  I  fancy.  Mademoiselle  Leonie  is  not  here 
to-night  because  one  has  no  time  for  society  the  week  be- 
fore one  is  married." 

"  Married!" 

"Certainly,  monsieur,"  gayly.  **0n  Thursday  next 
we  will  have  the  grandest  wedding  of  the  season.  Grace 
Church  will  be  crowded  to  see  the  bride — undisputably  the 


pi 


ill 


Hi' 


■■ii 


18X^ 


estella's  eusband. 


handsomest  of  tho  year.     And  so  you  did  not  know?    Yoq 
really  oaoie  here  ex|Mcting  to  see  her?    i£'./>traordinary!** 

Miss  Leesoni  settled  her  bracelets,  with  a  light  laugh^ 
and  glanced  sidelong  up  at  her  compunion.  Truth  to  tell, 
she  was  not  sorry  to  shoot  a  Parthian  arrow  or  two  at  this 
handsome  target,  who  had  so  often  utterly  overlooked  her- 
self for  the  fairer  Leouie.  If  she  had  ever  felt  a  jealous 
pang,  she  was  amply  avenged  now.  The  face  of  the  young 
artist  had  turned  to  a  dull,  dead  white. 

*' Married!*'  he  repeated,  the  word  dropping  mechan- 
ically from  his  lips.     '*  Married!  and  to  whom?" 

*'  Oh,  Mr.  Rutherford,  of  course — the  best  parti  in  the 
market.  You  see,  Mr.  Bartram,  Miss  I)e  Montreuil  is  an 
eminently  sensible  young  lady,  and,  to  be  a  little  vulgar, 
knows  on  which  side  her  bread  is  buttered.  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford is  rather  a  determined  old  gentleman,  and  when  he 
proposed,  rumor  says,  it  was  after  the  fashion  of  the  lady 
m  the  Irish  song — *  Take  me  when  Fm  in  the  humor,  and 
that's  just  now.*  Miss  Leonie's  coquetry  would  not  do 
here.  It  was  *  take  me  or  leave  me,  and  decide  at  once.' 
So  she  decided,  of  course — who  could  say  '  No  '  to  a  million- 
aire?— and  on  Thursday  next  they  are  to  be  married.  I 
am  so  surprised  you  have  not  heard  it;  it  is  tho  talk  of  the 
city.  They  say  the  trousseau  is  one  of  unparalleled  mag- 
nificence, and  the  Rutherford  mansion,  up  the  avenue,  is 
being  refurnished  in  a  style  of  princely  splendor.  Mr. 
Mamies  gives  the  bride  away,  and  there  are  to  be  nine 
bride-maids — myself  among  the  j  nber.  The  happy  pair 
go  to  the  cottage  in  the  Highlands  for  the  honey-moon. 
The  marriage  has  been  hurried  on  preposterously,  I  think; 
but  old  men  are  so  impatient,  and  Leonie  seems  to  yield 
to  all  his  whims  with  a  docility  one  would  never  expect  from 
her.  At  eleven  o'clock,  next  Thursday  morning  the  cere- 
mony will  take  place.  Of  course  you  will  make  one  of  the 
bridal  guests.     You  and  Leonie  were  always  such  friends." 

A  second  sidelong  look  of  feminine  spite  and  triumph. 
Miss  Leesom's  vengeance  was  complete.  He  had  heard 
every  word — every  cruel,  pitiless  word — of  this  chatter. 
And  this  was  the  reason  of  the  unanswered  letters — of 
iJeonie's  dead  silence.     False! 

But  his  white  face  told  little.  Even  his  voice,  when  he 
spoke — and  it  seemed  to  him  he  paused  for  an  hour  or  two 
before  finding  it — was  but  slightly  changed. 


liiih 


£6TELLA  S    UUSltAM). 


139 


**  This  is  all  news  to  mo.  As  yoa  say.  Miss  Leesom,  it 
18  most  extraordinary  some  of  my  many  friends  did  not  im- 

Sart  tho  aj^reeablo  intelligence  sooner.  And  so  Leonio  J)e 
[ontreiiil  id  to  bo  married  to  old  Rutherford,  and  next 
Thursday  is  the  day?  1  shall  not  fail  to  be  at  tho  wedding. 
Permit  me." 

He  led  her  to  a  seat,  dropped  her  arm  without  a  word  of 
«xcuse  or  apology,  and  walked  straight  out  of  the  house. 

He  forgot  to  go  to  the  cloak-room  for  his  overcoat,  and 
tho  November  night  was  windy  and  cold.  But  he  never 
felt  it. 

He  walked  straight  on,  whither  he  knew  not,  through 
the  deserted  city  streets,  his  face  set,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  hand 
clinched.  On  and  on;  streets,  streets,  streets;  homeless 
women  flitting  by  him  like  dark  phantoms;  drunken  men 
reeling  on  their  way;  policemen  straggling  along  their  beats. 
Overhead  sparkled  the  frosty  stars  and  the  keen,  yellow 
moon — the  ceaseless  watchers  in  heaven.  He  neither  felt, 
nor  saw,  nor  heard,  nor  suffered — he  was  merely  stunned. 

It  was  morning.  The  sun  rose  over  the  stony  streets — 
those  noisy,  terrible  streets  of  New  York — and  found  him 
miles  from  home.  With  the  new  life  of  the  new  day,  his 
stupor,  his  walking  dream,  ended. 

He  realized  and  remembered  all.  He  was  worn  out;  and 
despairing  lovers  must  eat  and  sl«^ep,  although  hearts  be 
shattered  and  heads  be  reeling.  Leonie  De  Montreuil  was 
false,  but  Alwyn  Bartram  must  go  home  and  go  to  bed,  and 
eat  his  breakfast  presently,  despite  his  bleeding  wounds. 

He  hailed  a  passing  stage,  and  was  rattled  down  Broad- 
way. At  his  hotel,  he  got  out,  went  up  to  his  own  room, 
and  flung  himself,  dressed  as  he  was,  upon  the  bed,  worn 
out  in  body  and  mind.  And  sleep,  the  consoler,  took  him 
as  a  mother  might  her  tired  child,  and  in  ten  minutes  all 
earthly  troubles  were  ended,  and  he  was  wrapped  in  blessed 
Elysium. 

It  was  long  past  noon  ere  the  young  man  awoke.  As  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  started  up,  memory  came  back  like  a 
sword- thrust,  and  told  him  all. 

False!  false!  false!  his  golden  idol  potter's  clay — cruel, 
heartless,  mercenary!  On  Thursday  next  to  be  married  to 
old  Hutherford,  and  this  was  Saturday  morning. 

"  I  will  see  her!'*  he  said,  setting  his  te»th  hard.  **  From 
her  own  lipg  I  will  hear  how  false,  and  selfish,  and  cold- 


I!, 

II' 
1(1 

(I 

II  . 


Il> 


< 


I?' 


piffivi'J 


ii  ;«." 


134 


estella's  husbanl 


blooded  she  can  be!  She  shall  see  me  face  to  face — she 
shall,  by  Heaven! — and  then — " 

His  face  was  absolutely  livid,  his  hands  clinched,  his 
strong  white  teeth  ground. 

**  And  then/^  he  thought,  in  the  fierce  wrath  and  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart,  **  men  have  shot  women  they  loved  for 
less!" 

But,  though  Mr.  Bartram  might  propose,  it  was  for  Miss 
De  Montreuil  to  dispose.  An  hour  after,  when  for  the  sec- 
ond time  he  presented  himself  at  the  Manners 's  doorstep, 
the  answer  was  "  Not  at  home." 

Mr.  Bartram  glared  at  the  servant  in  a  ferocious  way  that 
made  the  trained  understrapper  recoil. 

**  Not  at  home!    When  will  she  be  at  home,  pray?" 

**  Can't  say,  sir,"  impassively,  but  keeping  the  door  be- 
tween them.  '*  Miss  De  Montreuil  don't  receive  callers 
this  week." 

"  Then  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Manners." 

**  Not  at  home,  sir." 

Again  Mr.  Bartram  glared;  again  the  tall  footman  re- 
coiled in  alarm. 

It  was  plain  enough  the  servant  had  received  his  orders. 
The  troublesome  lover  was  not  to  disturb  the  ante-nuptial 
serenity  of  the  bride-elect 

**  Give  Miss  De  Montreuil  this  when  she  is  at  home." 

He  drew  forth  his  card,  and  wrote  rapidly  on  the  reverse 
side: 

''  1  must  see  you!  1  shall  see  you!  1  will  call  again  to- 
morrow at  ten." 

The  man  took  it  with  a  bow.  The  next  instant  the 
house  door  closed  with  a  sonorous  bang  upon  the  rejected 
lover. 

Alwyn  Bartram  passed  that  night  in  a  horrible  fever  of 
suspense,  half  the  time  pacing  his  room.  Morning  found 
him  haggard,  and  hollow-eyed,  and  wretched.  Ten 
o'clock,  to  the  minute,  saw  him  again  at  Mrs.  Manners's 
door. 

**  Miss  De  Montreuil  is  engaged,  and  can  see  no  ona 
She  begs  Mr.  Bartram  to  excuse  her." 

And,  with  the  pitiless  words,  the  door  absulutely  closed 
in  bis  face,  leaving  him,  white  and  stunned,  on  the  thres- 
hold. 


estella's  husband. 


135 


Lanners  s 


For  fully  five  minutes  he  stood  motionless;  then,  with  a 
look  on  his  face  the  heartless  Leonie  mi^t  never  forget 
had  she  seen  it,  he  turned  away. 

That  was  his  last  visit — the  bride-elect  was  troubled  no 
more.  Immersed  indiamoniis,  point  lace,  orange-blossoms 
and  white  moire,  there  was  little  time  left  to  think  of  her 
slaughtered  victims;  but  at  dead  of  night,  in  the  quiet  and 
darkness  of  her  room,  Alwyn  Bar  tram 'a  face  rose  before 
her,  pale  and  reproachful  as  a  ghost.  She  had  loved  him 
— she  did  love  him,  never  so  well  as  now,  when  of  her  own 
free  will  she  gave  him  up  forever. 

**  What  a  wretch  he  must  think  me!  what  a  wretch  I 
am!"  she  thought,  covering  the  beautiful,  wickef't  face  with 
both  hands.  **  I  promised  to  love  and  be  true  to  him  al- 
ways, and  see  how  I  keep  my  word!*' 

But  the  days  went  on.  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  and  it  was  the  **  night  before  the  bridal."  Up 
in  the  bride's  '*  maiden  bower,*'  all  white  and  glistening  lay 
spread  the  wedding  paraphernalia.  The  parure  of  dia- 
monds and  opals,  pearls  and  turquoises  fit  for  a  queen  lay 
blazing  in  their  velvet  nests — Mr.  Ruthe /ford's  princely 
gift. 

If  remorse  clutched  at  Leonie's  heart,  she  had  only  to  lift 
the  lids  of  those  dark  caskets,  and  the  sunbursts  of  splendor 
there  hidden  consoled  her  at  once. 

Upon  the  bed,  in  all  its  white  richness,  shone  the  Paris- 
ian wedding-robe,  the  shining  veil  of  priceless  lace,  the 
jeweled  orange- wreath,  the  gloves,  the  slippers — pale  as 
shimmering  phantoms. 

And,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  dazzle  and  snowy  glitter,  the 
bride  walked  up  and  down,  clad  in  a  loose  dressing-gown, 
all  her  rich  black  hair  unbound,  the  beautiful  face  white  as 
her  dress,  the  great,  luminous<eyes  darkly  somber. 

**  They  are  beautiful,"  she  said,  turning  those  dusky 
eyes  upon  the  blazing  gems,  the  wonderful  robe  and  veil — 
"  they  are  magnificent!  But  after  all,  is  the  game  worth 
the  candle?  Will  Alwyn  Bartram's  face  haunt  me  all  my 
life  long,  as  it  has  done  since  I  lost  him?  Will  he  despise 
and  hate  me,  and  give  his  heart  to  some  one  else,  and  will 
1  go  mad  and  die  with  jealous  rage  and  longing,  when  it  is 
too  late?  Will  diamonds,  and  dresses,  and  society,  and  all 
Mr.  Rutherford's  wealth  can  bestow  fill  this  dreary  void 
in  my  breast?    1  suppose  1  have  a  heart  after  all,  and  only 


I! 


IIJ 


Ml 


li;^ 


ill- 


'^': 


)|) 


l|: 


.  I'  J 


h 


I 


136 


e3tella's  husband. 


find  it  out  by  its  aching.  To-morrow  I  go  to  the  altar,  and 
sell  myself,  body  and  soul,  to  this  old  man — and  oh,  Alwyn, 
I  love  you!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!" 

She  sunk  down  in  the  darkness  of  her  room— the  lamps 
had  not  yet  been  lighted — down  in  the  very  dust,  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands. 

As  she  crouched  there  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  of 
pain,  her  wild,  loose  hair  streaming  about  her,  the  lover 
she  had  jilted  would  hardly  have  asked  for  sweeter  revenge. 

Presently — hours  after,  it  seemed  to  Leonie — there  was 
a  tap  at  her  door.  She  lifted  her  haggard  face,  but  did 
not  rise. 

*'  It  is  I,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Manners's  voice  said;  "  open 
and  let  me  in. " 

"  Not  to-night,"  was  the  answer;  "  my  head  aches. 
Leave  me  alone  this  last  night. " 

"  But,  my  dear,  Mr.  Rutherford  is  here,  and  most 
anxious  to  see  you." 

**  1  am  not  dressed.  1  am  going  to  bed.  Tell  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford I  shall  not  leave  my  room  to-night." 

Mrs.  Manners  turned  away  with  an  impatient  frown. 

**  Whimsical,  obstinate  girl!  1  believe  she  is  in  love  with 
young  Bartram,  after  all,  and  is  repenting  now  that  it  is 
too  late.  But  she  will  not  draw  back — that  is  one  com- 
fort!" 

Leonie  slowly  arose,  twisted  up  her  loose  hair,  and  sat 
down  by  the  window.  The  November  stars  sparkled  frost- 
ily, the  full  yellow  moon  lighted  up  the  deserted  avenue. 
No,  not  quite  deserted;  opposite,  standing  still  as  a  statue, 
gazing  fixedly  up  at  her  window,  stood  a  tall,  dark  figure, 
motionless. 

With  a  low  cry,  the  girl  drew  back;  no  need  to  look 
twice  to  recognize  Alwyn  Bartram. 

He  had  not  seen  her;  she  knew  that,  after  the  first  wild 
pang  of  fear.  But  she  could  see  him  plainly,  standing 
there,  a  tall,  dark  ghost,  the  moonlight  streaming  full  upon 
his  pale  face.  How  deathly  pale  tl^t  handsome  face  was? 
In  his  shroud  and  winding-sheet  it  could  never  look  more 
marble-like  and  rigid. 

"  And  it  is  my  doing,"  she  thought,  her  heart  thrilling, 
"  and  I  love  him!    Oh,  Alwyn!  Alwyn!  Alwyn!" 

She  fell  on  her  knees,  screened  by  the  window-curtain, 
and  watched.     What  would  happen?  what  was  he  doing 


estella's  husband. 


137 


>ne  com- 


therer  Was  he  waiting  to  waylay  and  murder  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford on  his  way  home?  He  was  just  the  kinil  of  man, 
this  dark-eyed,  hot-blooded,  fierce-tempered  lover  of  her» 
to  do  such  a  deed. 

She  shivered  convulsively,  crouching  there,  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart  turning  her  deathly  sick.  Oh!  what  woultt 
happen  to-night? 

Nothing  happened.  The  house  door  opened;  Mr.  Ruth- 
erford came  forth,  and  walked  briskly  up  the  avenue,  and 
still  the  dark  figure  never  stirred.  It  might  have  beea 
carved  in  8t#ne,  so  motionless  it  stood.     Mr.  Rutherford 

fassed  from  sight — his  home  was  but  a  few  doors  off — and 
jeonie  breathed  again. 
*'  Thank  Heaven!"  she  thought—**  thank  Heaven!    It 
IB  to  watch  my  window,  not  to  commit  murder,  he  is  there. 
My  poor  Alwyn!  my  poor,  poor  Alwyn!    Will  any  one  in 
this  world  ever  love  me  again  as  you  do?" 

The  hours  wore  on,  and  still  that  strange  vigil  was  kept. 
The  despairing  lover  gazed  at  his  lady's  lattice,  as  hundreds 
of  despairing  lovers  have  done  before  him,  and  William. 
Rutherford's  bride-elect  watched  him  on  her  knees. 

Midnight  came,  passed,  but  he  never  stirred.  Worn  out 
at  last,  Leonie's  head  dropped  forward  on  the  window-sill, 
and  she  fell  fast  asleep. 

V  *tF  •!*  •!•  •!•  •!•  T» 

The  fashionable  Broadway  church  was  crowded.  Silks 
rustled  and  jewels  flashed,  and  perfume  filled  the  air  as  the 
elite  flocked  in. 

As  Clara  Leesom  had  said.  Miss  De  Montreuil's  wedding 
was  to  be  the  wedding  of  the  season.  The  beauty  of  the 
bride,  and  the  wealth  of  the  bridegroom,  were  the  talk  of 
the  citv. 

It  was  a  clear  case  of  buying  and  selling — every  specta* 
tor  there  knew  that;  but  society  approves  of  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  society  mustered  strong  to  behold  the  bargain 
clinched.  Long  before  the  hour  for  the  ceremony  the 
stately  church  was  filled. 

They  came  at  last — the  bridal  train.  Mr.  Rutherford, 
red-faced,  portly,  vulgar,  self-conscious  as  ever.  But  na 
one  glanced  twice  at  hi?n.  A  silver-shining  vision  swept  up 
the  carpeted  aisle  upon  the  arm  of  Mr.  Manners— a  vision 
of  such  dazzling  beauty  and  splendor  that  society  fairly 
caught  its  breath  with  speechless  admiration. 


'Hi': 
If' 

1 1  <«!■  : 


ill 
ft 


i 


«fi 


1^ 


if 


138 


ESTULLA'S    HUSBAND. 


Pale  as  a  lily,  bnt  lovely  beyond  comparo,  in  that  exqni* 
site  dress  and  yell,  half  hidden  in  the  silvery  cloud  of  laoe, 
the  long  lashes  s^veeping  the  colorless  cheeks.  Miss  De  Mon- 
treuil  floated  by  as  Miss  De  Montreuil  for  the  last  time. 

Many  a  fair  patrician  bosom  throbbed  with  bitterest  envy 
as  its  owner  gazed;  many  a  masculine  heart  that  shoulil 
have  been  better  regulated  quickened  its  beating  as  she 
went  by. 

And  standing  near  the  door,  half  hidden  by  a  marble  pil- 
lar, was  one  whose  dark  face  never  moved  a  muscle  as  the 
radiant  apparition  flashed  by. 

He  was  long  past  that — poor  Alywn  Bartram!  What  he 
had  suffered,  what  he  did  suffer  words  are  weak  to  tell;  but 
the  haggard  face  and  hollow  eyes  betrayed  little  of  the 
deathly  bitterness  and  despair  within. 

The  organ  pealed  forth  its  grandest  notes — the  cere- 
mony began.  Dead  silence  fell — you  might  have  heard  a 
pin  drop.  The  solemn  words  were  spoken;  the  marriage 
rite  was  over;  William  Rutherford  and  Leonie  De  Mon- 
treuil were  man  and  wife  until  death  should  them  part. 

The  bridal  cortege  swept  down  the  aisle  and  out.  As 
the  bride,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  passed  that  mar- 
ble pillar,  a  tall  young  man  stepped  forwara,  stood  straight 
in  their  way,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face. 

She  just  repressed  a  cry,  and  no  mora  A  specter  in  its 
grave-clothes  could  hardly  have  been  more  terrible  to  her 
then;  no  dead  man,  murdered  by  her  cruel  hand,  could 
have  looked  at  her  with  more  passionately  reproachful  eyes. 
Then  he  stepped  back  and  let  them  pass. 

The  bridegroom's  red  face  turned  redder  with  sardonic 
triumph,  and  his  fat,  protruding  under  lip  came  out  a  little 
further.  That  was  all;  there  was  no  scene;  a  very  few 
noticed  the  young  man  at  all. 

The  carriages  rattled  away,  bearing  off  the  happy  pair 
to  their  blissful  honey-moon.  The  crowd  dispersed,  chat- 
tering volubly;  the  church  was  deserted  and  closed.  And 
Alwyn  Bartram  stood  alone  in  busy  Broadway,  with  the 
garish  sunshine  everywhere,  and  the  endless  stream  of  life 
flowing  by. 

Alone!  Friends,  future,  love,  all  lost — poor  and  alone! 
Oh,  little  Estella!  if  you  were  wronged,  surely  your  hour 
of  vengeance  had  come  I 


I      M 


ESTELLA^S    HUSBAND. 


130 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ON     CHRISTMAS-EVE. 


CI 


tf 


And  there  is  no  hope,  Doctor  Sinclair?" 

**  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  Miss  Mallory." 

Helen  Mallory  turned  round  from  the  window  with  a 
gmile  upon  her  pale  face — a  smile  very  sad  to  see. 

'*  1  think  1  know  what  that  means — the  old  formula. 
Well,  »^octor,  I  am  glad  I  know  my  fate.  I  thank  you  for 
your  candor.  How  long  will  this  fleeting  flame  of  life 
last?" 

**  Impossible  to  say  with  any  certainty,  my  dear  Miss 
Mallory.  Life  is  sometimes  prolonged  indefinitely  in 
these  cases,  sometimes  goes  out  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle. 
Let  us  hope  you  may  have  many  years  before  you  yet 
Don't  distress  yourself  by  dwelling  upon  what  you  have 
forced  me  to  say.     You  may  outlive  the  best  of  us." 

Again  Helen  Mallory  smiled — that  faint,  melancholy 
smile. 

They  were  alone  together — doctor  and  patient — in  the 
pleasant  drawing-room  of  the  Chelsea  home. 

"  You  are  very  good.  Doctor  Sinclair.  1  am  not  in  the 
least  distressed.  I  have  few  ties  to  bind  me  to  life.  I 
have  long  suspected  my  fate,  and  I  have  looked  upon 
death  before  now  with  a  quiet  eye.  1  will  not  detain  you 
longer.  Permit  me  to  thank  you  once  more  for  your  can- 
dor, and — gocd-morning!" 

The  doctor  departed.  Helen  sat  down  alone,  her  thin 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  large,  brown,  melancholy 
eyes  fixed  on  the  quiet,  sunlit  street. 

**  So,"  she  thought,  with  a  strange  calm,  **  1  know  the 
worst — I  am  to  die.  Well,  as  I  said,  there  are  few  ties 
"io  bind  me  to  earth.  Death  and  the  grave  have  little  ter- 
ror for  me,  and  yet — poor  Estella — it  is  hard  to  leave  her 
alone  and  unprotected  in  this  big,  bad  world.  There  is 
Norah,  of  course;  but  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  in  the  safe 
shelter  of  a  loving  husband's  arms.  My  poor  little  Essie! 
She,  too,  has  been  learning  life's  bitterness  of  late.  1  al- 
most wish  Alwyn  Bartram  had  never  come  here.  I  almost 
wish  I  had  not  written  last  week  to  ask  him  again.  Is  it 
you,  Norah?    Come  in." 


ill' 


■  ii 


tu  I 


m 


lil 


m 


I 


I 


if* 


Ill 


140 


estella's  husband. 


Thertj  had  been  a  rap  at  the  door.  It  opened,  and  Korah 
entered,  with  three  letters  and  a  paper  in  her  hand. 

**Poslmun'8  been,  ma'am.  1  saw  Doctor  Sinclair  go 
away.     What  does  he  say.  Miss  Helen?" 

She  spoke  abruptly,  not  looking  at  her  »nistress.  But 
Hek'ii's  face  was  chaiigelessly  calm. 

*'  What  I  told  you  he  would  say,  my  good  Norah.  No 
earthly  power  can  restore  me  to  health.  The  fiat  has  gone 
forth — my  days  are  numbered." 

*'  These  doctors  know  no  more  than  other  folks  some- 
times," Norah  said,  harshly.  '*  I  never  had  no  great 
opinion  of  old  Sinclair,  either.  Don't  mind  his  croaking. 
Miss  Helen.     You  will  be  better  by  the  spring." 

*'  I  hope  so,  Norah,"  with  a  misty,  far-away  look  in  the 
beautiful  eyes — *'  free  from  pain  forever.  Ah!  what  is  this? 
A  letter  from  France — from  the  Count  De  Montreuil! 
Norah,  where  is  Estella?" 

'*  Out  walking,  as  usual.  The  child  will  wear  herself  off 
her  feet.  Yesterday  she  went  to  Chelsea  Beach,  to  look 
at  her  old  friend,  the  sea,  she  said.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
but  what  she's  gone  there  again. ' ' 

But  the  mistress  had  not  waited  for  the  answer.  She 
had  torn  open  the  large,  official-looking  seal,  and  was 
glancing  eagerly  over  its  contents.  Norah  waited  near  the 
door. 

"*  What  does  he  say.  Miss  Helen,  please?  He  is  not 
going  to  force  away  Miss  Essie,  surely?" 

**  He  could  hardly  do  that,"  Helen  said,  proudly.  **  He 
can  not  take  Estclla,  unless  Estella  chooses  to  go.  But  he 
wants  her — yes.  lie  is  quite  alone  in  the  world  now,  he 
says — the  possessor  of  immense  wealth,  and  the  highest 
position  in  the  brilliant  circles  of  Paris.  A  favorite  ward, 
the  daughter  of  a  distant  cousin,  whom  some  years  ago,  he 
adopted  as  his  heiress,  has  recently  made  a  wealthy  mar- 
riage, and  left  him  doubly  alone.  He  wishes  most  ardently 
for  his  daughter.  He  asks  me  if  it  is  fair  to  let  old  jeal- 
ousies rankle  between  us,  and  keep  Gaston  De  Montreuil's 
only  child  out  of  the  lofty  sphere  in  which  he  can  place  her. 
And,  Norah,  I  begin  to  tliink  it  is  not." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Nonih,  tihrilly.  **  You  never  mean 
to  send  the  child  away  to  that  nasty  foreigner — to  that 
wicked,  far-off  city — among  a  pack  of  rubbishing  French? 
You  never  mean  to  do  it.  Miss  Helen!" 


estella's  husband. 


141 


''  Norah,  that  *  nasty  foreigner  '  is  the  child's  father/' 

"  And  what  if  he  is?  A  pretty  father  l>e^ll  be  to  her!  A 
pretty  husband  he  was  to  his  wife!  Don't  you  do  it.  Miss 
Helen,  or  you'll  repent  it  ull  your  life,  and  break  the  poor 
dear's  heart,  besides.  She's  lonesome  enough,  and  dismal 
enough,  ever  since  that  young  man  left  lus^  September 
without  thai.  Drat  the  men!"  cried  Norah,  with  a 
vicious  glare;  "  they're  all  alike." 

Miss  Mallory  smiled,  but  the  smile  ended  in  a  sigh. 

**  They  make  mischief  wherever  they  go — don't  they, 
Norah?  Let  us  thank  our  lucky  stars  that  we,  at  least, 
hare  escaped  their  clutches.  Poor  little  Essie!  It  was  all 
my  fault,  I  am  afraid,  and  she  is  so  romantic,  and  Alwyn 
so  handsome.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  him,  Norah;  he  can't 
help  that  face  of  his,  or  all  those  winning  ways,  and  he 
can't  fall  in  love  with  our  little  girl  and  marry  her,  just  to 
please  two  sentimental,  match-making  old  maids.  Here 
is  a  note  from  him,  accepting  my  invitation  to  come  and 
spend  Christmas  with  us.  Very  good  of  him,  is  it  not,  to 
leave  his  gay  life  in  New  York,  for  our  dull  old  Chelsea 
homestead?" 

Norah's  answer  was  a  contemptuous  snort. 

"  Better  have  let  him  stay — that's  my  opinion,  Miss 
Helen;  but  it's  likely  you  know  best.  He'll  only  make 
that  child  worse,  with  his  wishy-washy  picture-painting  and 
piano-sfcrumming,  and  song-singing,  and  walking,  and 
gadding.  He'll  make  her  worse  than  she  is,  and  that's 
bad  enough,  goodness  knows,  and  then  he'll  go  off  at  New 
Year's,  and  we'll  all  have  the  mopes  for  a  month.  You 
can  do  as  you  like,  but  if  1  was  mistress  I'd  no  more  let  a 
man  near  the  house  than  1  would  a  fiery  d ragon.     There!" 

"  Norah,  hush!"  cried  her  mistress,  impetuously. 
"  Listen  to  this." 

^  She  had  torn  open  the  third  letter,  and  her  thin  cheeks 
flushed  and  her  eyes  kindled,  as  she  read  its  few  curt 
lines: 

•'  Fisher's  Folly,  Nov.  2%th,  18—. 

"  Miss  Helen  Mallory:  Madame, — It  is  my  painfui 
duty  to  announce  to  you  the  death  of  my  friend  and  your 
nephew-in-law.  Captain  Roysten  Darrell.  The  *  Haven ' 
was  wrecked  off  the  coast  of  Bermuda,  and  all  on  board 
perished.  I  send  you  a  paper  containing  a  full  account  of 
the  disaster.     Mrs.  H.  D.  is  consequently  a  widow^  and 


h\". 

m  \ 


A: 

if 


a 


nar- 


9"  I 


142 


estella's  husband. 


when  her  wealthy  father  makes  her  his  heiress^  1  trust  to 
her  generosity  and  sense  of  justice  to  remember  hand- 
somely the  old  man  who  was  a  parent  to  her  for  so  many 
years. 

**  Very  truly  yours, 

**  Peter  Fisher." 

"There,  Norah!"  exclaimed  Helen,  eagerly,  **Estella 
is  free!" 

'*  Thank  the  Lord!"  said  Norah;  "  not  that  I  thought 
she  was  anything  hut  free.  Still,  it's  a  great  deal  better 
he's  drowned  and  out  of  the  way;  he  can  make  her  no 
trouble  in  the  future.  Don't  sit  up  too  long.  Miss  Helen, 
and  don't  tire  yourself  reading.  Will  1  send  Miss  Essie  to 
you  when  she  comes  in?" 

"  Yes;  I  will  remain  here.  How  relieved  the  poor  child 
will  be  at  the  thought  of  her  freedom!  The  fear  of  this 
Roysten  Darrell  has  been  her  waking  nightmare  all  along." 

Norah  quittejl  the  drawing-room,  and  descended  to  the 
kitchen,  to  prepare  supper.  The  short  December  after- 
noon, with  its  pale,  yellow  sunshine,  speedily  darkened 
down,  and  the  twilight  lay  grayly  in  the  dull  street  when 
the  area  door  opened  and  Ei^^ella  came  wearily  in. 

She  had  sadly  changed  since  the  bright  September.  Her 
step  was  slow;  he  cheek  was  pale  and  thin;  the  glad,  buoy- 
ant light  was  gone  from  the  brown,  beautiful  eyes.  She 
looked  wan  and  weary  as  a  tired  spirit,  coming  in  through 
the  misty  gloaming. 

**  At  last.  Miss  Essie,"  Norah  said,  sharply.  "  1  began 
to  think  you  were  lost.  Where  have  you  been  all  the 
afternoon,  pray?    Back  to  Chelsea  Beach,  I'll  be  bound." 

**  Yes,"  said  Estella,  listlessly.  *'  I  like  to  go  there.  It 
is  like  gazing  on  the  face  of  an  old  friend  to  sio  and  look 
on  the  sea.  Where  is  Aunt  Helen?"  moving  away.  *'Up 
in  her  room?" 

"  No;  in  the  drawing-room,  and  waiting  for  you — and 
good  news,  too." 

"  Good  news!"  Estella  stopped  short.  **  Oh,  Norah!  is 
it  from — from  New  York?" 

"  From  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram?"  said  Norah,  shortly. 
**  Yes,  she's  got  a  letter  from  him  saying  he's  coming  to 
spend  Christmas,  if  you  call  that  good  news.  1  don't!  I 
wish  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  Boston  Bay — there!    Go 


bstella's  husband. 


143 


aloDL  with  your  I'm  aggravated  enough  .iiout  you 
standiDK  staring!" 

Estella  kuew  testy  Norah  well  enough  not  to  mind  these 
little  ebullitions  of  temper.  Her  heart  gave  a  great  bound 
at  the  news  she  heard — that  poor,  foolish  heart  that  loved 
thfe  handsome  painter  so  dearly.  He  was  not  married  yet, 
then,  else  he  had  not  accepted  Aunt  Helen's  invitation. 

**  He  is  mourning  for  his  uncle,  no  doubt,"  she  thought, 
*'  and  must  wait  a  little,  it  will  come,  all  the  same.  Oh, 
what  a  foolish,  foolish  girl  I  am  to  feel  like  this,  because 
1  am  going  to  see  him  once  more — see  him  who  does  not 
care  one  straw  for  me!  And  he  hiows  I  love  him,  and  I 
shall  never,  never  be  ab^      >  look  him  in  the  face  again  I" 

She  ascended  to  the  d  .v  ing-room,  and  found  Aunt  Helen 
still  seated  by  the  window,  her  letters  and  papers  loose  in 
her  lap. 

She  sat  gazing  dreamily  out  at  the  December  twilight, 
lighted  with  sparkling,  wintery  stars. 

"  In  the  dark,  auntie?"  Estella  said,  quietly.  "  Shall 
I  light  the  gas?" 

Helen  Mallory  turned  round  to  her  niece  with  a  bright, 
loving  smile. 

*'  Back,  my  dear?  How  tired  you  must  be!  Norah  says 
you  walk  all  the  way  to  Chelsea  Beach.  Too  far,  my 
dear — too  far!" 

^*  I  am  so  strong,  auntie,"  with  a  dreary  little  sigh; 
'*  nothing  hurts  me.  Norah  told  me  you  had  good  news 
for  me — good  news!    What  is  it?" 

She  had  lighted  the  gas,  and  now  stood  removing  her  hat 
and  mantle.  Helen  Mallory,  for  answer,  placed  Peter 
Fisher's  letter  in  her  hand. 

*'  Bead  that,  my  dear.  Your  bugbear  will  be  your  bug- 
bear no  longer.  You  need  never  fear  Roysten  Darrell  on 
this  earth  again." 

^^Dead!"  Estella  said,  her  great  eyes  dilating. 
'*  Drowned!  how  terrible!  And  yet—oh.  Aunt  Helen,  is 
it  right  to  be  thankful  at  any  fellow-creature's  death?" 

**  Let  us  forget  him,  my  dear;  let  us  only  remember  he 
can  never  persecute  you  more.  You  are  free  from  his 
machinations  forever — free  to  marry  whomsoever  you 
please.  W  ill  you  read  Al  wyn  Bartram  s  note.  He  is  com* 
ing  to  s{)end  Christmas." 

The  girl's  pale  face  flushed.     She  took  the  note  and  ma 


l>  .1  ' 


V:   1 


iv 

-  ^  •  - 

w 

I  If 


m 


ii\ 


144 


bstella's  husband. 


m' 


m\ 


over  the  brief  contents.  Very  brief — only  two  or  three 
lines  to  say  he  would  come.  She  did  not  give  it  back 
when  she  had  finished;  she  crushed  it  m  her  hand,  and 
kept  it  there. 

'*  And  here  is  a  third  letter  from  your  father/'  Helen 
said — **  the  most  important  letter  of  the  three.  Essie,  my 
dear,  ho  wants  his  daughter  very  much." 

"  Does  he?"  very  coldly.  ''  Well,  he  can  not  have 
her." 

"  My  dear,  sit  down  and  let  us  talk  it  over.  My  feelings 
have  changed,  Estella,  toward  the  man  who  wronged  my 
sister.  We  must  forgive,  as  we  hope  to  be  forgiven. 
And,  after  all,  no  one  alive  has  the  claim  upon  you  he  has 
— your  father." 

"  A  father  1  have  never  seen — whom  I  never  want  to 
eee.  Aunt  Helen  what  have  I  done  that  you  wish  to  be  rid 
of  me?  to  send  me  to  this  strange  man? 

■*  Essie  dear,  you  know  better  than  that — you  know  1 
could  not  part  with  my  little  ^irl  if  I  tried.  It  is  not  that 
I  wish  to  send  you  away — it  is  that  I  must  leave  you,  and 
▼ery  soon." 

**  Leave  me.  Aunt  Helen?" 

**  Dear  child — ^yes.  Doctor  Sinclair  was  here  this  after- 
noon while  you  were  out,  and  what  1  have  lon^  suspected 
will  come  true.  You  know  what  I  mean,  Essie.  I  have 
spoken  to  you  of  this  before.  Death  will  part  us,  and 
very  soon." 

**  Auntie,  auntie — don't!     1  can't  bear  it  I" 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  quick  tears  of  sixteen 
started  and  choked  her  voice;  Helen  Mallory's  own  eyes 
were  humid. 

"  I  don't  say  this  to  distress  you,  my  pet — only  to  show 
how  soon  we  must  part.  And  I  can  not  leave  you  alone 
with  only  Norah  for  a  protector;  therefore,  when  I  go,  1 
think — I  really  think,  Estella,  you  must  return  to  your 
father.  1  had  hoped — but  I  am  only  a  foolish,  sentimen- 
tal woman,  and  that  hope  is  past." 

Estella  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  No  need  of  words 
to  tell  what  that  past  hope  had  been. 

**  1  will  write  to  your  father  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks,  my  dear,  and  tell  him  all.  When  1  am  gone — my 
child,  my  child,  be  calm — he  will  come  for  you,  and  take 
you  to  sunny  France,  where  my  Eslella  will  reign  en 


I  ! 


estella's  husband. 


I4d 


princisse.  But  while  1  live,  my  dear,  we  will  never  part. 
Let  us  talk  of  this  no  more;  let  us  wait  and  trust  in  the 
good  God  not  to  separate  us  too  soon.  Come,  dear  child: 
Norah  will  be  waiting  supper. " 

The  subject  was  dropped;  not  one  of  the  three  spoke  of 
it  again,  but  on  every  heart  the  thought  of  the  coming 
parting  lay  like  lead. 

"  I  can  not  reconcile  myself  to  let  her  go  to  her  father,** 
Helen  Mallory  thought.  '*  Oh,  why  could  not  Alwyn  love 
her  and  marry  hor — my  pretty  Essie?  Whv  must  things 
go  so  crooked  that  might  be  straight?  My  fortune  would 
render  him  independent  of  his  profession  and  his  uncle, 
and  she  would  make  him  such  a  dear  little,  loving  wife.  1 
should  have  nothing  left  to  desire,  if  1  could  only  see  her 
his  wife.  ** 

The  December  days  wore  on.  Life  went  very  quietly  in 
that  dull  old  house  with  only  those  three  women.  Alwyn 
Bartram's  coming  was  the  only  event  likely  to  disturb  the 
stagnant  current  of  their  slow  lives.  To  Estella  fell  the 
pleasant  task  of  preparing  his  room — and  oh,  what  pains 
the  girl  took  to  beautify  and  adorn  that  sacred  chamberl 
The  books  he  had  read,  the  pictures  he  liked,  the  colors  he 
preferred,  the  flowers  that  were  his  favorites,  all  found  their 
way  there.  Brightly  burned  the  fire  on  his  hearth-stone, 
and  Estella's  Christmas-gifts— biippers,  dressing-gown  and 
smokiug-cap,  all  her  own  handiwork — lay  awaiting  the 
coming  of  the  dark-eyed  hero. 

He  came  at  last — a  week  before  Christmas — late  in  the 
evening  of  a  snowy,  windy  day.  A  cab  rattled  up  to  the 
door — trunks  and  valises  were  taken  off,  and  Mr.  Bartram 
himself,  in  furred  cap,  and  long,  picturesque  cloak,  sprung 
out  and  rang  the  bell. 

Estella  saw  him  from  the  drawing-room  window,  where 
ihe  had  hidden  behind  the  curtain,  and  her  heart  throbbed 
at  the  sight  of  that  tall,  graceful  form,  as  though  it  would 
burst  its  way  and  fly  to  him.  Another  instant,  and  she 
heard  his  voice  in  the  hall  greeting  Norah  and  Aunt 
Helen — that  dear  voice,  the  sweetest  music  earth  ever  held 
for  her!  Another,  and  he  would  be  before  her  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

A  sudden  paroxysm  of  girlish  fear  seized  her;  she  fled 
incontinently  up  to  her  own  room. 

"  How  shall  I  meet  him?' '  she  thought,  hiding:  her  bom- 


!■' 


Pi- 

I 

i 

I   1; 

'J" 

'm 
m  \ 

i{  ■!»«  I 


1         M 


t  ir 


I'.i  i 


m 


140 


estella's  husband. 


ing  face  in  hor  hands.  **  Oh,  how  shall  1  meet  him,  when 
I  love  him  so  dearly — so  dearly — and  ho  Itnows  it?" 

Sho  heard  him  pass  into  his  apartment — she  heard  Aunt 
nelen  give  him  naif  an  hour  to  change  his  dress  before 
dinner. 

*'  We  dine  late,  out  of  compliment  to  you,  Alwyn,'*  Miss 
Mallory  said.  *'  You  are  accustomed  to  late  hours,  of 
course;  so  don't  spoil  Norah's  temper  and  broiled  birds  by 
keeping  us  waiting.  How  do  you  like  your  room?  Estolla 
arranged  it." 

"  It  is  perfect!  Mademoiselle's  taste  is  exquisite.  Where 
is  she,  pray?" 

"  In  her  room.  Don't  stand  talking!  Beautify  your- 
self, and  come  down.  *' 

Miss  Mallory  descended.  Estella  went  over  to  the  mirror 
ior  a  parting  peep. 

How  would  he  think  her  looking?  she  wondered.  She 
had  taken  such  pains  with  her  toilet;  she  wore  all  the 
colors  he  had  told  her  she  should  wear,  and  the  mirror 
certainly  reflected  back  a  bright  little  image. 

The  silk  dress  of  brilliant  bine  set  off  the  fair  complexion 
and  shining  brown  hair.  The  thin,  pale  cheeks  were 
flushed,  the  yellow-brown  eyes  full  of  streaming  light 

Yes,  she  was  pretty;  but  the  image  of  that  pictured  face 
arose  before  her — the  darkly  beautiful  face  of  Leonie — and 
she  turned  way  in  cold  despair. 

**  What  does  it  matter?"  she  thought,  bitterly;  "  what 
does  it  signify  whether  I  look  well  or  ill?  He  will  never 
glance  at  me  twice!" 

She  went  down  to  the  drawing-room,  and,  seating  her- 
self at  the  piano,  began  to  play  softly  in  the  fire-light 

She  had  a  natural  talent  for  music,  and  already  her  sing- 
ing and  playing  were  the  pride  of  Helen's  heart  That 
fond  protector  looked  at  her  now  with  kindling  eyes. 

**  How  pretty  she  is!  how  pretty — how  pretty!"  she 
said,  to  herself.  **  Surely,  Alwyn  Bartram  must  be  stone- 
blind  if  he  does  not  admire  my  brown-eyed  darling.  Only, 
unhappily,  admiration  is  not  love. " 

Alwyn"  Bartram  entered  as  the  fancy  crossed  her  uijik:, 
and  walking  over  to  the  piano,  held  out  his  hand  to  Es- 
tella. 

**  We  meet  sooner  than  we  thought  la&L  September,  Misf^' 
Essie/'  he  said.    * '  Tell  me  you  are  glad  to  see  me  agaiiL- " 


» 


estella's  husband. 


147 


She  laid  her  hand  in  his,  her  lingers  turning  cold  in  his 
grasp — her  voioe  quite  gone.  She  tried  to  say  something, 
but  only  an  inarticulate  murmur  came. 

Norah  appeared  to  the  rtauue. 

**  Dinner,  Miss  Helen'/'  throwing  open  the  drawing- 
room  door,  sharply;  "  and  everything  getting  cold.'* 

Mr.  Bartram  drew  Estella's  hund  within  his  arm,  and 
followed  Miss  Mallory  to  the  dining-room. 

Here  the  gas  bhized  down  upon  the  antique  silver  and 
china,  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  the  female  triad  had  a 
full  view  of  their  guest. 

**  Alwyn,"Mi8s  Mallory  said,  hurriedly,  *'  have  you  been 
ill?" 

For  the  dark  face  looked  haggard  and  worn,  the  cheeks 
sunken,  the  large  eyes  hollow,  and  deep  lines  that  only 
time  or  trouble  can  plow  furrowed  the  smooth,  broad 
forehead. 

**  He's  got  ten  years  older  since  last  September!"  cried 
Norah.     **  lie  looks  like  a  man  just  out  of  a  sick-bed. " 

Estella's  great  brown  eyes  fixed  themselves  in  wordless 
inquiry  upon  the  handsome,  altered  face.  She,  too,  saw  the 
change. 

Alwyn  Bartram  laughed,  but  the  laugh  sounded  hollow 
and  mirthless,  and  a  fierce  flash  shot  from  his  somber  eyes. 

**  Sick?"  he  said.  **  No,  I  am  never  sick.  1  have  been 
working  hard — that  is  all.  I  have  to  labor  for  my  daily 
bread  now,  you  know.  Helen,  never  mind  my  haggard 
looks — a  week  in  old  Chelsea  will  set  me  up  again." 

**  Can  it  be  the  loss  of  his  uncle's  wealth?"  thought 
Helen.  **  He  is  in  debt,  no  doubt — young  men  are  always 
in  debt.  Something  is  certainly  wrong.  Ah,  if  he  would 
only  marry  Estella,  and  take  my  fortune,  how  gladly  I 
would  resign  it!  If  1  could  only  summon  courage  to 
speak." 

*'  Can  that  beautiful  lady  have  deserted  him?"  tiiought 
Estella,  stumbling  unconsciously  upon  the  truth.  "  Some 
great  trouble  has  surely  come  to  him.  But,  no!  No  lady 
alive  could  prove  false  to  liim  /" 

'*  He's  bilious,"  thought  Nora;  *'  your  dark,  thin  people 
are  always  bilious,  and,  I  dare  say,  if  the  truth  was  known, 
he  drinks  more  that  is  good  for  him.  Young  men  always 
do;  and  they  sit  up  all  night  playing  cards  and  going  ta 
parties.     He's  bilious — that's  what't  the  matter." 


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148 


estella's  husband. 


So  each  had  her  own  theory,  but  no  one  spoke.  There 
was  that  iu  the  rigid  compression  of  his  mustached  mouth, 
in  the  fiery  gleam  of  his  nollow  eyes  that  warned  them  his 
altered  looks  was  dangerous  ground.  He  eat  and  drank, 
he  talked  and  laughed;  but  the  appetite  for  Norah's  dain- 
ties was  forced,  and  the  talk  and  the  laughter  had  a  forced 
and  joyless  sound. 

Helen  Mallory  watched  her  guest  very  closely,  very 
silently,  during  the  next  three  or  four  days.  He  had  set 
up  his  easel  iu  his  pretty  room,  and  worked  hard;  and 
Helen  had  a  fancy  for  taking  her  sewing  and  sitting  by  the 
sunlit  window  while  he  painted.  Sometimes  Estella 
came,  too,  but  not  often;  she  had  her  studies,  her  music, 
and  dearly  as  she  loved  to  be  near  him  she  yet  shrunii 
from  the  gaze  of  those  powerful  dark  eyes. 

Did  he  not  know  her  secret?  Must  he  not  in  his  inmost 
heart  despise  her  for  her  folly?  And  Alwyn  Bartram 
smoked  and  painted,  and  the  dark  gravity  of  his  face  never 
wore  away,  and  the  smiles  that  answered  Helen's  were  cold 
and  fiittiug  as  starlight  on  snow. 

**  Alwyn."  she  said,  tenderly,  one  evening,  **  what  does 
it  all  mean?  Will  you  not  tell  the  friend,  who  loves  you 
almost  as  a  mother  might  love,  this  great  trouble  of  your 
life?  It  is  not  the  loss  of  John  Wylder's  wealth — 1  know 
that." 

It  had  grown  too  dark  to  paint.  They  sat  alone  together 
in  the  December  darkness,  only  the  flickering  light  of  the 
fading  fire  lighting  the  room.  The  young  man's  face,  in 
the  luminous  dusk,  looked  cold  and  fixed  as  stone.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  him,  and  bent  toward  him. 

**  Alwyn,  my  boy,  tell  Heleu  what  it  is.  Who  knows? 
she  may  be  able  to  help  you." 

"  No  one  can  help  me,  and  1  nerd  no  help,"  he  answered, 
in  a  cold,  measured  voice.  **  I  hi  ve  been  a  fool,  and  have 
met  a  fool's  punishment — that  is  all.  1  richly  deserve  what 
I  have  suffered — what  I  suffer  still,  I  have  been  the  most 
egregious  idiot,  Helen  Mallory,  that  ever  laid  life,  and 
heart,  and  soul  at  a  woman's  feet,  to  be  trampled  on  at 
her  pleasure!" 

**  A  woman!  Then  I  was  right — it  is  not  the  loss  of  your 
'nheritance,  after  all?" 

**  My  inheritance?  no — and  yet,  yes,  for  the  loss  of  it 
has  lost  me  all.     It  is  an  old  story,  Helen,  and  not  worth 


ESTELLA  S    HLSHAIhD. 


149 


repeating — the  old  story  of  Delilah  over  again.  I  trusted, 
»nd  have  beeu  betrayed;  aud  when  a  man  has  played  the 
fool  as  long  as  1  have,  he  can  not  become  wise  all  in  a 
moment.  We'll  not  talk  of  it;  deeper  wounds  than  mine 
have  been  cauterized,  and  I  richly  deserved  it  all." 

Helen  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

**  My  poor  boy!  if  I  could  only  console  you!  Oh,  Alwyn, 
if  you  had  only  turned  to  the  girl  who  loved  you,  not  to  the 
girl  you  love!" 

**  I  love  no  one!''  he  answered,  sternly — '*  no  one!  But 
I  don't  understand.  Who  is  mad  enougli,  blind  enough, 
to  love  me?** 

**  Alwyn,  do  you  really  need  to  ask  that  question?" 

There  was  silence.  The  winter  twilight  deepened  and 
deepened;  she  could  hardly  see  his  face  now. 

*  I  think  I  understand  you,"  he  said,  slowly;  *'  I  suppose 
you  mean  Estella.  But  you  are  mistaken ;  she  is  only  a 
child,  and  she  cares  for  me  as  she  does  for  Edgar  Ravens- 
wood,  or  Earnest  Maltravers,  or  Vivian  Grey,  or  any  other 
of  her  ideal  heroes.  She  is  a  romantic  child,  and  I  am  to 
her  what  they  are — an  image  to  dream  of  for  a  week  or 
two,  until  a  newer  hero  comes.  Your  little  niece  does 
not  know  what  love  means. " 

"  1  hope  so,"  Helen  said,  quietly,  repressing  a  sigh. 
"  Perhaps  you  are  right;  and  yet — oh,  Alwyn!  could  you 
not  care  for  her?    She  is  pretty  enough,  surely." 

**  Too  sweet  and  too  pure  for  me.  No,  Helen;  1  have 
done  with  love  and  love-making  forever.  The  lesson  one 
false  woman  has  taught  me  shall  last  me  all  my  days.  I 
would  not  darken  our  pretty  Essie's  young  life  if  I  could 
by  linking  it  with  mine.  And,  besides,  how  could  you  part 
with  her?    She  is  all  you  have. " 

'*  We  must  part,"  replied  Helen,  **  and  before  long.  I 
suppose  it  is  the  dread  of  leaving  her  alone  and  friendless 
that  makes  me  speak.  My  fortune,  Alwyn— -no  princely 
one,  it  is  true — would  still  have  sufficed  for  you  and  her, 
even  if  Robert  Bartram  should  turn  up.  It  has  been  the 
dream  of  my  life  to  see  her  your  wife,  but  like  most  of  my 
life-dreams,  it  seems  doomed  to  disappointment.  Look  in 
my  face,  Alwyn,  and  read  my  fate  there.  Essie  and  1  must 
part.     At  least  you  will  be  as  a  brother  to  her  when  1  am 


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150 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


you  h»w  sorry  I  Ahi,  and  yet  I  have  suspected  something 
of  the  kind  this  many  a  day.  iStill^  let  us  hope  the  time  of 
parting  may  be  far  off;  some  one  more  worthy  of  youp 
pretty  niece  than  a  jilted  wretch  like  me  may  have  wooed 
and  won  her  long  before.  She  cares  nothing  for  me,  and 
I  would  be  a  villain,  indeed,  if  I  tried  to  link  her  bright 
life  to  such  a  wreck  as  mine  has  become.  Men's  hearts 
don't  break  easily;  but  better  men  than  1  have  gone  head- 
long to  perdition  for  less  provocation  than  a  false  woman  has 
given  me. " 

Silence  fell.  Alwyn  Bartram  rose,  after  a  time,  and 
quitted  the  room. 

*'  I  will  take  a  turn  in  the  starlight  and  smoke  a  cigar 
before  dinner,"  he  said.  **  Tell  Norah  not  to  fidget  rll 
keep  nobody  waiting." 

And  so  it  had  ended.  Holen  Mallory  got  up  with  a 
long-drawn  sigh  and  went  slowly  to  her  room. 

**  Like  all  the  rest,"  she  thought,  bitterly;  **  like  every 
hope  of  my  life — doomed  to  end  in  nothing." 

Kext  day  was  Christmas-eve — bright,  sparkling,  frosty. 
All  day  long  Estella  flitted  like  a  brown-eyed  bird  from 
room  to  room,  decking  them  with  wreaths  and  evergreens, 
and  singing  as  she  worked. 

She  loved  Alwyn  Bartram,  her  dark-eyed,  moody  hero, 
very  dearly,  very  hopelessly,  but  her  heart  was  not  quite 
broken,  and  possibly  never  would  be. 

She  could  sing  still — one  can  hope  so  much  from  young 

Eersons  of  sixteen.  Helen  was  ill — an  attack  of  nervous 
eadache  that  kept  her  confined  to  her  room. 

Mr.  Bartram  was  finishing  his  Christmas  picture — a 
little  German  scene  of  Kriss  Kringle — a  pot-boiler,  such 
as  he  had  to  paint  and  sell  now  to  appease  his  relentless 
creditors. 

Norah,  down  in  the  kitchen,  was  immersed  in  her  tur- 
keys, and  mince  pies,  and  plum  pudding. 

The  day  went — the  day  whose  one  event  was  to  alter  the 
whole  future  lives  of  Alwyn  and  Estella. 

That  event  was  the  coming  of  the  postman.  It  was 
already  dark — the  short  December  day — when  the  sharp 
ring  echoed  through  the  house.  Estella  ran  to  the  door. 
There  were  a  half  a  dozen  letters  for  Alwyn  Bartram. 
Her  light  tap  made  the  artist  drop  his  brush  and  open  the 
door. 


estella's  husband. 


151 


How  pretty  she  looked!  His  lamp  was  lighted,  and  in 
its  glow  he  could  seethe  flushed  cheeks,  the  sparkling  eyes, 
the  smiling  lips.  How  pretty  she  was!  His  artist's  eye 
lighted  as  he  saw  her. 

'*  Letters  for  you,  Mr.  Bartram." 

She  dropped  them  in  his  extended  hand,  and  was  gone. 

The  young  man's  face  darkened  into  an  impatient  frown. 
Letters  of  late  had  been  one  of  the  most  annoying  events  of 
his  existence. 

"  More  duns,"  he  thought,  angrily.  "  The  harpies  will 
have  their  pound  of  flesh,  do  what  I  may.  1  work  like  a 
galley-slave,  but  I  can  not  appease  them." 

He  tore  open  the  bufi  envelopes.  Yes,  duns — duns  pa- 
thetic, duns  eloquent,  duns  vituperative — five  of  them! 

To  make  the  matter  worse,  they  were  debts  contracted 
for  faithless  Leonie— the  jeweler,  the  florist,  the  bookseller, 
etc.  He  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  flung  them  one  by  one  into 
the  fire. 

The  sixth  was  different — a  gossiping  letter  from  an  artist 
friend.  He  took  it  up  with  sullen  indifference,  but  soon 
he  became  absorbed  heart  and  soul. 

*'  There  is  little  news,"  wrote  his  friend.  "  The  city  is 
quiet.  The  festive  season  drags  on  slowly  enough.  The 
one  event  of  interest  in  our  circle  is  the  return  of  your  old 
flame,  the  brilliant  Leonie.  I  met  them — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rutherford — last  night,  at  the  Lessom's,  and  she  was  too 
beautiful  and  too  magnificent  to  tell.  Some  one  spoke  of 
you — mentioned  ycu  had  gone  heiress-hunting  to  the  Hub, 
now  that  Uncle  Wyider  had  failed  you,  and  said  we  might 
look  for  a  Mrs.  Bartram — a  three-bullion  heiress— upon 
your  return.  You  should  have  seen  little  Leonie's  inso- 
lent smile,  the  triumphant  light  in  her  eyes,  as  she  slowly 
iisped : 

*  I  think  not!  The  greatest  heiress  in  the  United 
States  could  not  tempt  Alwyn  Bartram  now !  Poor 
fellow!  the  loss  of  his  fortune  was  a  sad  blow.  I  suppose 
he  is  trying  to  conquer  trouble  by  hard  work. ' 

**  Confound  the  impertinent  little  monkey!  It  would 
have  done  me  good  to  shake  her  there  and  then.  Every 
one  laughed — every  one  knew  what  she  meant.  By  Jove! 
Bartram,  it's  a  thousand  pities  you  can't  hunt  up  a  Boston 


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152 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


hoiresS;  and  fetoh  her  back  Mrs.  A.  B.     It  would  be  glori- 
ous revenge  on  the  heartless  little  De  Montreuil." 

Alwyn  Bar  tram  read  no  more.  His  face  had  turned  white 
and  rigid  with  suppressed  passion,  his  black  eyes  glowed 
like  coals  of  lire.  A  moment  he  sat,  h>s  teeth  locked,  ^iia 
hands  clinched  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  not  the  less  deep 
and  deadly  because  still.     Then  he  started  to  his  feet. 

^^Itvill!**  he  hissed — literally  hissed.  "It  is  not  to* 
late  yet  for  revenge!'' 

In  another  minute  ho  stood  knocking  at  Helen  Mallory's 
door.  She  opened  it  herself,  pale  and  worn-looking,  still 
wearing  her  loose  morning-robe.  Only  the  shadowy  fire- 
light lighted  her  room;  she  could  hardly  see  her  visitor's 
face. 

**  Helen,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  strangely  hard  and  cold,  *'  I 
have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  to  me  last  evening. 
I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  am  going  to  ask  Estella  to 
be  my  wife." 

"Alwyn!" 

She  could  just  gasp  the  name — no  more. 

**  She  is  in  the  drawing-room,  no  doubt.     I  hear  the 

Eiano.     I  have  your  best  wishes,  have  I  not?    If  I  can  win 
er  consent,  I  will  marry  her  before  the  New  Year  begins." 

Estella  sat  alone  at  the  piano,  playing  and  singing  softly, 
in  the  December  dusk.  The  light  of  the  rising  moon 
streamed  in  white  and  chill,  and  lay  in  squares  of  luster 
upon  the  carpet  and  upon  her  ringeleted  head. 

She  was  dressed  for  dinner — in  bright  rose-hued  merino, 
with  ribbons  fluttering  and  jewels  sparkling  about  her,  and 
her  song  was  a  plaintive  little  love  chant: 

"  Soft  and  low  I  breathe  my  passion." 

The  door  opened  hastily;  some  one  strode  quickly  in. 

She  looked  up,  thankful  that  the  wintery  twilight  hid  her 
flushing  face,  her  heart  beginning  to  throb  as  it  always 
throbbed  when  the  hero  of  her  life  came. 

A  moment  and  he  was  bending  above  her  <]s  he  had  never 
bent  before. 

**  Go  on,  Essie,"  he  said;  '*  finish  your  song." 

*'  It  is  finished.  I  hardly  knew  1  was  singing-  I  was 
only  trying  to  pass  the  interval  between  dressijig  and  din- 


\- 


estella's  husband. 


153 


ner.  It  is  dinner-time,  is  it  not?  And  Aunt  Helen — has 
she  sent  you  for  me?" 

**  Aunt  Helen  is  not  coming  down,  I  think.  I  saw  her 
a  moment  ago  at  the  door  of  her  room,  and  she  was  not 
dressed.     I  am  afraid  she  is  ill.'' 

**111!''  Estella  roso  up  in  quick  alarm.  **  Oh,  Mr. 
Bartram,  what  is  it?  You  know  the  doctor  said —  Oh,  I 
must  go  to  her  at  once!" 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  gently  held  her 
back. 

**  One  instant,  Essie— only  one,  and  you  shall.  She  is 
waiting  for  you.  She  knows  why  I  have  come  here.  She 
knows  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  I" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A    WEIRD    WEDDING. 

The  murder  was  out — blurted  abruptly  enough.  The 
words  were  plain.  Heaven  knows,  but  the  girl  stood  like 
one  who  does  not  understand,  staring  with  wild,  brown 
eyes. 

'*  Do  you  hear  me,  Essie?  To  ask  you  to  be  my  wifel 
I  have  Aunt  Helen's  best  wishes  and  consent.  Have  I  also 
yours?" 

The  words  were  very  gentle,  the  voice  low  and  soft,  but 
underneath  there  was  a  hard  intonation,  a  cold,  metallic 
ring. 

In  the  moment  of  asking,  he  despised  himself.  It  was 
the  first  mean  and  cowardly  action  of  his  life. 

**  Speak,  Estella,"  he  said,  impatiently — **  speak  and 
tell  me!    Will  you  marry  me?    Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

"  Your  wife?" 

She  gasi)ed  the  words.  Then  she  stopped.  A  flood  of 
celestial  bliss  seemed  suddenly  to  fill  her  heart.  Oh,  was 
she  dreaming,  or  did  earth  hold  such  rapture  for  her? 

**  My  wife,  Essie — mine,  your  whole  life  long!  I  will  do 
my  best  to  make  you  happy.  You  shall  never  regret  it,  if 
it  is  in  my  power.  I  am  not  a  good  man,  but  I  will  do 
my  best,  by  and  by,  to  become  worthy  my  dear  little  bride. 
Essie,  Essie!  is  it  to  be  yes  or  no?" 

He  bent  above  her;  he  tried  to  see  her  face.  The  mo» 
mentary  excitement  of  love-making,  like  the  excitement  of 


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154 


estella's  husband. 


gambling  or  horse-raoing,  had  carried  him  away  for  th« 
time  being,  and  he  was  really  in  earnest. 

He  wanted  EstelU  to  say  yes  now.  But  Estella  had 
covered  her  face  \,  1th  both  hands,  and  sat  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Estella!  Estella!"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly,  ** you  tool 
And  1  thought  you  cared  for  me  a  little.'' 

At  that  cry,  selfish  and  empty  as  it  was,  her  hands 
dropped.     She  lifted  one  of  his,  and  kissed  it  passionately. 

"  1  love  you  with  all  my  heart,"  she  said,  with  something 
that  was  almost  a  sob.  **  1  have  loved  you  from  the  first 
Oh,  Alwyn,  do  you  mean  it?     Can  you  care  for  me?" 

**  Very  much,  my  dear  little  girl,"  he  answered,  with 
the  sharpest  pang  of  humiliation  and  self-reproach  he  had 
ever  felt  in  his  life.  "  It  is  not  so  difficult  a  matter.  And 
you  will  really  be  my  wife?" 

"If  you  wish  it." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  the  white,  pure  brow 
with  remorseful  tenderness. 

"  I  wish  it  more  than  anything  else  on  earth  just  now. 
And  so  you  really  love  me,  my  poor  little  Essie? 

**  With  my  whole  heart." 

He  held  her  in  silence,  his  own  heart  full  of  passionate 
bitterness  and  remorse.  What  a  wretch  he  was — what  a 
mean,  despicable  wretch — in  his  own  eyes! 

The  girl  s  happ^  face  lay  hidden  on  his  shoulder — the 
face  of  this  girl  who  loved  him — where  so  often  the  false, 
beautiful  face  of  Leonie  had  lain. 

"  Cheat  and  hypocrite  that  I  am!"  he  thought;  **  and 
this  poor  child  really  loved  me  from  the  first!  It  must 
atone — it  shall  atone!  I  will  devote  my  life  to  her!  I  will 
make  her  happy  if  I  can!" 

He  lifted  the  drooping  face,  all  rosy  with  blushes,  and 
looked  at  it.  Even  in  the  dusk  he  could  see  it  radiant — 
glorified  with  new-born  bliss,  rosy  with  luminous  light 

"  My  pretty  little  Essie!  my  bright  little  fireside  fairy! 
And  when  is  it  to  be?" 

"  What  ?"  in  the  shyest  of  happy  whispers. 

"Our  wedding-day." 

She  gave  a  little  hysterical  laugh,  and  the  roseate  face 
hid  itself  again. 

"  I— 1  don't  know.  Whenever  you  and  Aunt  Helen 
like." 


estella's  huspand. 


155 


Alwyn  Bartram  laughed— for  the  first  time,  perhaps, 
since  Leonie  De  MontreuiFs  wedding-day. 

**  You  good  little  girl!  it  shall  be  very  soon,  if  it  depends 
on  me.  Why  not  oefore  1  return  to  New  York,  nexl 
month?" 

She  did  not  speak.  Literally  she  could  not.  The  flood- 
tides  of  bliss  were  too  high;  her  sudden  happiness  was  too 
great  for  words. 

**  Run  away  and  ask  Aunt  Helen,'*  he  said,  opening  his 
arms  and  letting  her  go.  "  It  must  be  as  she  says;  only 
coax  her,  Essie,  to  name  an  early  day." 

She  flitted  from  his  embrace — out  of  the  room  and  up- 
stairs— with  winged  feet. 

"  Oh,  in  all  this  wide  world,*'  thought  rapturous  sixteen, 
"  is  there  such  another  happy  girl  as  I?** 

Alwyn  Bartram,  left  alone,  leaned  moodily  against  the 
mantel  and  stared  in  the  fire.  He  had  done  it,  then.  He 
had  followed  Mrs.  Rutherford's  br'Uiant  example,  humbly 
and  afar  off,  and  *'  bettered  himself." 

He  had  won  a  wife  and  an  heiress.  The  harassing  duns, 
those  barking  curs,  could  be  muzzled  now,  as  soon  as  he 
pleased,  and  Mrs.  Rutherford  would  see  that  her  victim  was 
not  quite  so  much  her  victim  as  she  thought.  His  revenge 
was  complete;  he  could  pay  her  back  at  last  in  her  own 
coin. 

"  For  she  did  love  me,"  he  said,  setting  his  teeth;  **  she 
does  love  me,  as  much  as  it  is  in  that  cold,  selfish,  mer- 
cenary heart  of  hers  to  love.  She  does  love  me,  and  she 
shall  meet  my  wife  face  to  face,  and  every  pang  she  has 
made  me  endure  she  shall  endure  in  return  threefold!" 

It  was  the  hour  of  his  triumph,  and  yet — oh,  words  are 
weak  and  poor  to  tell  the  bitter  self-scorn  and  loathing  that 
filled  his  heart!  What  a  pitiful  part  he  was  playing — what 
a  pitiful,  spiteful  part!  What  a  false,  deceitful  traitor  he 
was  to  those  two  women — the  only  two  in  the  wide  eartk 
who  really  cared  for  him! 

**  They  love  you,"  his  reproachful  conscience  said,  '*  and 
see  how  you  ropay  their  love!" 

He  started  up  and  began  to  pace  hurriedly  to  and  fra 
In  all  the  passionate  misery  of  his  undisciplined  heart  he 
had  never  felt  as  he  felt  this  moment. 

'*  And  she  loves  me,"  ho  thought,  bitterly,  **  and  she 
has  told  me  so.     I  would  be  the  basest  villain  on  earth  to 


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estella's  husband. 


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retract  now.     If  it  can  add  one  iota  to  her  happiness  to  be 
my  wife,  my  wife  she  shall  be!" 

A  shrill  scream  answered  him.  Flying  feet  came  down 
the  stairs — the  door  was  flung  open.  Pale  and  wild,  Es- 
tella  stood  before  him. 

**  She  is  dead!"  she  cried.  **  She  is  lying  on  the  floor 
like  a  stone!    Ob,  Mr.  Bartram,  cornel" 

She  sped  away  like  the  wind.  The  young  man  followed 
her  at  once;  bv  intuition  he  understood  all. 

He  followed  Ther  upstairs  to  Helen  Mallory 's  room.  Thert 
on  the  floor  lay  Helen  face  downward,  white  as  death,  still 
fts  death,  and  almost  as  cold. 

**  Ring  for  Norah,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  **  I  will  go  for 
the  doctor  at  once. " 

He  lifted  the  light  form  and  laid  it  upon  the  bed.  She 
had  slipped  from  her  chair,  and  never  moved  after  she  felL 

Estella  rang  a  sharp  peal,  and  then  lighted  the  gas.  A 
flood  of  light  fell  full  upon  the  marble  face. 

"She  is  not  dead,*' Alwyn  said,  ashen  pale  himself. 
**  It's  only  a  death-like  faint.  Tell  me  where  Doctor  Sin- 
clair lives;  I  will  go  directly." 

It  was  Norah  who  told  him.  Estella  had  fallen  upon 
her  knees  by  the  bedside  in  a  wild  outburst  of  passionate 
weeping. 

He  hurried  from  the  room  and  house  at  once,  his  own 
plans  dissolving  in  thin  air  before  the  awful  presence  of 
death. 

Yes,  death!  Dr.  Sinclair  bent  above  the  rigid  form,  half 
jkXi  hour  later,  with  a  face  of  dark,  ominous  gravity. 

**  She  will  never  rise  from  this  bed,"  he  said,  solemnly. 
"  Ti:is  death-like  swoon  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  She 
may  Jive  to  see  the  new  year  dawn;  she  will  never  live  be- 
yond it.  1  feared  this,  but  not  so  terribly  soon.  I  warned 
her,  and  she  knew  her  fate." 

The  physician  applied  restoratives  for  a  weary  while  m. 
vain;  but  the  large,  sad  eyes  opened  at  last,  the  white  lips 
wreathed  themselves  in  the  old,  gentle  smile. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked.     **  Am  I  ill?" 

Their  faces  answered  her.  The  sound  of  suppressed  sob- 
bing came  from  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  soft,  dark  eyes 
turned  tenderly  upon  Estella. 

**  It  has  come  very  soon,"  she  whispered  to  the  doctor. 


ESTELLA  S    HUSBAND. 


167 


with  her  mournful  smile — **  sooner  than  we  thought,  my 
old  friend.     How  long  before  the  end?'* 

"  My  dear  Miss  Mallory — *' 

'*  Tell  me  the  truth,  Doctor  Sinclair,  if  you  are  my 
friend  I  J  can  bear  it,  and  1  most  know.  How  many  days 
—how  many  hours?" 

'*  You  will  live  to  see  the  new  year,  I  hope." 

"  So  long?  That  is  well.  1  will  have  the  desire  of  my 
heart,  then,  before  I  go.  Alwyn,*'  she  held  out  her  hand 
feebly,  her  smile  at  its  brightest,  '*  the  last  thing  I  remem- 
ber is  something  very  pleaspnt — something  you  told  me — 
something  I  have  longed  ardently  to  hear.  Surely  it  was 
not  a  droam?'^ 

He  kissed  the  slender  hand  with  eyes  that  grew  diu. 

**  It  was  no  dream,  dearest  Helen.  Estella  will  be  my 
wife.'' 

"  i  am  so  glad — so  glad!  I  can  die  in  peace  now,  Al- 
wyn.     Oh,  my  boy!  she  did  love  you,  did  she  not?" 

"  She  is  an  angel,  and  1  am — "  He  stopped  short. 
*'  But  1  will  become  worthy  of  her — she  shall  bo  liappy.  I 
Bwear  it  by  your  dying  bed,  Helen!"  he  cried,  with  sudden 
passion. 

That  oath!  Could  he  have  seen  the  future — could  he 
have  known  how  awfully  it  was  destined  to  be  broken — 
how  terribly  it  would  haunt  him  in  the  days  to  come! 
That  impetuous  oath!  And,  if  he  had  loved  her,  what 
need  to  swear  at  all? 

**  I  can  die  happy,"  Helen  murmured.  **  My  darling 
will  no  longer  be  friendless  and  alone.  And  before  I  go, 
Alwyn,  I  must  see  hei  your  wife.  By  my  death-bed  she 
shall  become  yours  forever.  I  will  have  nothing  left  on 
•arth  to  wish  for  then. " 

*'  Miss  Mallory  is  talking  too  much,"  Dr.  Sinclair  said, 
sharply.  "  I  can't  allow  it.  She  must  drink  this,  and  go 
to  F)eep." 

He  had  not  heard  a  word — neither  had  Estella.  The 
young  man  retreated  as  the  physician  advanced,  cup  in 
nand. 

**  You  will  sleep  after  this.  Don't  excite  yourself — 
don't  talk.     1  will  not  be  answerable  for  the  consequences. " 

She  took  it  like  a  child,  and  closed  her  eyes,  with  a 
iMig,  satisfied  sigh. 


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E.STKLLA's    IIUSIJAND. 


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**  I  am  tired/'  she  said.  "  I  will  sleep.  Tell  Estella 
to  sit  by  me  until  1  awake/' 

And  then  the  brown  eyes  closed,  and,  with  her  darling's 
hand  in  hers,  she  driftoJ  away  into  dreamland. 

No  one  went  to  bi  d  that  night.  Through  its  long,  cold 
hours,  they  sat  beside  her — Estella  and  Norah — and  Al- 
wyu  Bartram  paced  the  corridor  outside,  lie  could  never 
retract  now — the  half-formed  resolution  he  had  made  down- 
stairs to  draw  back  from  this  loveless  marriage  could  never 
be  carried  out.  It  was  too  late.  Estella  loved  him,  and 
hi«d  told  him  so.  He  would  bo  a  villain,  indeed,  to  tell  her 
the  truth  after  that.  And  the  glad  light  in  Helen's  dy- 
ing eyes!     No;  it  was  too  late — too  late! 

What  Alwyn  Bartram  suffered  that  night,  in  his  self- 
scorn  and  humiliation,  was  known  only  to  Heaven  and 
himself. 

Morning  came — Christmas-day,  with  brightest  sunshine 
and  clajging  bells.  But  the  jubilant  sunshine  was  shut 
out  of  that  sick-room,  and,  in  its  dusky  light,  the  face  of 
the  sick  woman  looked  hardly  whiter  than  that  of  the  pale 
girl  who  bent  above  her. 

*'  You  must  go  to  bed,  Essie,"  Mr.  Bartram  said,  au- 
thoritatively, coming  in,  *'  or  we  will  have  two  patients  be- 
fore the  day  ends.  You  are  as  white  as  the  snow-drifts 
outside." 

The  wonderful  brown  eyes  lifted  themselves  to  his  face 
with  a  look  of  inexpressible  love.  How  sweet  it  was  to  be 
cared  for  by  him!     She  rose  at  once  to  go. 

'  *  And  I  have  been  talking  to  her  for  the  last  two  hours 
to  go  to  bed,  and  all  in  vain,"  grumbled  Norah;  *'  and  one 
word  from  him  does  it.  Drat  the  men!  He's  got  her  be- 
witched, like  all  the  rest." 

Mr.  Birtram  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee,  snatched  a  couple 
of  hours  sleep,  had  his  morning  walk  and  smoke,  and  went 
on  with  his  painting.  He  was  no  use  in  the  sick-room,  and 
he  must  work  to  drown  reflection. 

**  '  Men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep,'  "  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  took  up  his  brush.  '*  1  thought  the  race 
of  women  who  weep  was  extinct  until  I  came  here.  Poor 
Helen,  and  poor  Estella!    How  will  it  all  end,  I  wonder?" 

How,  indeed?  Could  he  only  have  foreseen!  But  that 
merciful  veil  that  shrouds  the  future  was  down,  and  h© 
went  on  blindfold  to  his  fate. 


!;f 


E8TELLA  S    HU8KAND. 


159 


Later,  that  day.  Miss  Mallory  sent  for  her  lavryer,  and 
made  her  will.  All  went  to  Alwyn  Bar  tram.  Estella 
would  have  it  so  when  stie  was  consulted. 

"  Let  it  till  bo  his,  dear  Aunt  Helen,"  she  said,  hiding 
her  happy  face  in  the  pillow — **  let  me  owe  everything  to 
him.  Oh,  what  is  the  wealth  of  the  world  in  comparison 
to  his  love?'' 

And  so  the  will  was  made,  and  signed,  and  sealed.  The 
lawyer  departed,  taking  it  with  him,  and  aunt  and  niec« 
were  alone  in  the  Christmas  twilight. 

*'  And  you  are  happy  at  last,  my  Essie?"  the  elder  lady 
said,  fondly  caressing  her  beloved  one's  hand.  '*  Thank 
Heaven  for  that!" 

*'  Too  happy  for  words  to  tell,"  Estella  answered,  almost 
with  a  sob.  *'  I  never  thought  he  could  care  for  me.  It 
seems  wicked  and  heartless  to  be  happy  now,  but,  ohi 
Aunt  Helen,  I  love  him  so  dearly — so  dearly  I" 

"  Thank  Heaven!"  Aunt  Helen  repeated;  '*beashappy 
as  you  can,  my  darling;  shed  no  tears  for  me.  Ab!  my 
life  has  been  loveless  and  lonely — 1  am  not  sorry  to  go. 
But,  Essie,  what  of  the  past — your  father — your — 1  mean 
Eoysten  Darrell?    Shall  we  tell  him  all?" 

"  Whatever  you  please.  Aunt  Helen." 

There  was  a  pause. 

*'  Tht..  1  think  not,"  Helen  Mallory  said.  "  I  shrink 
from  repeating  the  troubles  of  your  life,  and  1  know  how 
acutely  sensitive  he  is.  And  why  need  he  know?  The 
Count  de  Montreuil  is  nothing  to  you — never  need  be  now. 
He  and  Alwyn  Bartram's  wife  may  meet  face  to  face  in  the 
future,  and  never  know  each  other.  Let  him  and  his 
wealth  go — that  wealth  which  broke  your  poor  mother's 
heart,  and  left  her  to  die  in  misery  and  loneliness.  And 
for  Roysten  Darrell,  he  is  dead,  and  will  never  trouble  you 
more.  To  Peter  Fisher  1  will  send  a  sum  sufficient  to  sat- 
isfy him  and  silence  him  forever.  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones 
— Alwyn  will  be  none  the  happier  for  knowing  the  miseries 
of  your  past  life.  If  in  the  future  you  feel  inclined  to  tell 
him  yourself,  do  so;  but  my  hours  on  earth  are  numbered. 
I  want  to  pass  them  in  peace — I  can't  go  over  the  old 
ground.  Unless  he  asks  for  your  past  life,  we  will  bury  it 
in  oblivion. " 

"  Whatever  you  like,"  Estella  said,  submissiyely;  **  you 
know  best." 


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ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


And  SO,  with  fatal  sophistry,  the  past  was  hidden,  and 
the  story  which,  if  told,  might  have  saved  them  so  many 
years  of  sorrow  and  parting  was  not  told  to  Alwyn  liar- 
tram. 

The  days  of  that  Christmas  week  went  by,  each  one 
bringing  the  fatal  end  nearer  and  nearer.  There  was  no 
time  for  love-making  now;  the  awful  presence  of  death 
filled  every  room  in  the  house,  darkened  the  very  air. 
Helen  Mallory  was  dying — they  counted  her  life  by  hours 
now,  not  by  days. 

**  You  will  marry  Estella  on  New  Year's-eve,  Alwyn?" 
she  said,  wearily.  **  I  am  going  with  the  old  year.  I  can 
hardly  hope  for  more  than  to  see  the  new  year  dawn,  and 
I  can  not  die  until  my  darling  is  your  wife.'* 

**  Whenever  you  please,  Helen,"  the  young  man  an- 
swered, very  gravely.  **  The  sooner  the  better — since  it 
must  be,"  was  his  silent  conclusion,  with  a  groan. 

Estella *s  preparations  were  few — there  was  no  time,  and 
less  inclination,  this  mournful  Christmas  week.  And  yet 
she  was  happy,  unutterably  happy,  though  the  aunt  she 
loved  lay  dymg.  The  stronger  love  conquered  the  weaker 
— her  heart  was  full  of  inexpressible  bliss,  despite  the  ter- 
rible shadow  of  Death. 

It  came — New  Year's-eve — Estella's  wedding-day.  Her 
second  wedding-day — she  remembered  that  with  a  sharp 
pang  of  terror  and  remorse. 

**  I  wish  Aunt  Helen  had  told  him,"  she  thought. 
'*  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew  of  Roysten  Darrell?" 

The  day  dawned  dull  and  leaden — no  glimmer  of  sun- 
shine in  sky  or  earth.  A  wailing  wind  sobbed  round  the 
gables,  and  drove  the  snow  in  wild  drifts  before  it. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  threatening  rain  began  lo 
fall,  freezing  as  it  fell,  anl  lashing  the  windows  in  slee. 
and  hail.  A  bad,  black  day,  cold  and  tempestuous,  dark 
and  dreary.  The  dying  woman  shuddered  as  she  listened 
to  the  raging  of  the  storm. 

'*  And  I  had  hoped  for  sunshine  and  brightness  on  this 
last  day,"  she  thought,  trying  to  shut  out  the  eerie  cries  of 
the  winter  wind — '*  my  darling's  wedding-day.  What  if 
it  should  be  omnious?  What  if  it  should  be  prophetic  of 
the  future,  after  all?" 

She  turned  suddenly,  and  looked  trM  at  the  bridegroom. 
He  sat  beside  her,  alone,  looking  very  little  like  a  bride' 


JSTELLa'8    HUSTlANn. 


Ibl 


groom,  his  dark  face  set,  and  stern,  and  smilelebs  as  the 
January  sky  without. 

**  Oh,  Alwyn,  toll  me!'*  she  cried,  in  shrill  affright, 
**  you  do  love  Estolla,  do  you  not?  You  will  cherish  and 
protect  her  when  I  am  gone?" 

Alwyn  Bartram's  pule  face  turned  a  shade  paler. 

**  If  1  can,'*  he  slowly  said.  *'  Truly  and  faithfully; 
Helen,  1  promise  you  to  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy. 
Rest  in  peace;  1  will  keep  my  marriage  vow.** 

*'  She  is  so  friendless,  so  utterly  alone.  Oh,  my  poor 
little  Essie!  She  will  have  no  one  in  the  wide  ';oHd  but 
you.  And  she  loves  you,  Alwyn;  no  one  on  this  earth  will 
ever  love  you  as  well.  ** 

No,  surely  not.  To  be  twice  loved  so  passionately,  so 
unselfishly,  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  one  life- time. 

Up  in  her  room  the  bride  was  dressing  for  her  second 
bridal — this  bride  of  sixteen — with  Norah  standing  by  to 
assist.  But  the  simple  toilet  was  easily  made,  and  the  de- 
mands upon  Norah  were  few.  Very  sullen  and  overcast 
looked  the  face  of  Helen  Mallory*s  old  servant.  To  her 
this  hasty  marriage  was  the  maddest  of  all  mad  acts. 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  her,**  Norah  said  to  herself. 
*'  Pretty  as  she  is,  and  good  as  she  is,  he  doesn't  care  for 
her.     What,  then,  is  he  marrying  her  for?** 

Very  pretty  Eatella  looked  to-night — very  pretty,  very 
pale.  Her  gauzy  robe  floated  pure  and  white  around  her; 
a  pearl  necklace  encircled  the  slender  throat;  a  white  rose 
nestled  among  the  brown  curls — and  that  was  all.  No 
costly  veil,  no  orange-blossoms,  no  train  of  bride-maids; 
jind  few  brides  ever  looked  fairer,  sweeter,  purer,  on  their 
bridal  night. 

•'  Will  I  do,  Norah?*' 

She  turned  from  the  glass,  a  faint  smile  lighting  her  pale 
face — fair  as  a  lily. 

'*  You  might  do  for  a  king.  Miss  Essie,  let  *vlone  a  pen- 
niless painter,**  Norah  answert*!,  brusquely.  **  You  re  a 
million  times  too  good  for  that  black-a-vised  ^oung  man. 
Why  you  and  Miss  Helen  come  *o  set  such  sto>e  by  him,  I 
don't  see.     I  never  took  to  him  .  nd  1  never  w*  I.     There!** 

*'  Norah!**  utter  horror  in  Eace  and  eyes  at  this  h\^^ 
phemy. 

'*  I  don*t  care!**  said  Norah,  folding  her  arms.  **  ItV 
the  truth,  and  I  should  burst  if  1  didn't  tell  it     1  don*t 

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believe  in  this  marriage,  done  up  in  a  hurry,  and  I  donH 
believe  in  him  f  There!  it's  after  ten;  if  you're  ready, 
*Jome  down. " 

She  opened  the  door  and  flung  out  in  a  temper.  On 
^he  landing  stood  the  bridegroom  waiting,  pale  as  the  bride 
herself. 

'*  Is  she  ready?"  he  asked.  **  Miss  Mallory  grows  im- 
patient, and  the  clergyman  is  down-stairs." 

Estella  answered  for  herself.  She  came  forward,  lio: 
heart  throbbing  so  fast  and  hard  that  she  felt  half  suifo- 
cated.  Scarcely  looking  at  her,  he  drew  her  hand  through 
his  arm,  and  led  her  down. 

**  We  must  not  excite  her,  and  she  is  in  a  fever  of  impa- 
tience already,"  was  all  he  said  by  the  way. 

In  the  sick-room,  the  doctor,  the  clergyman,  the  lawyer 
and  Norah  stood.  The  dying  woman  sat  propped  up  with 
pillows,  a  feverish  fire  in  her  eyes.  The  room  was  di'nly 
lighted  by  one  shaded  lamp,  and  the  uproar  of  the  storm 
Bounded  awfully  loud  without.  A  solemn  scene  and  a  sol- 
emn hour;  a  weird  wedding  at  dead  of  night,  in  that  raging 
tempest  and  by  a  death-bed. 

Tne  clergyman  opened  his  book.  Side  by  side  they 
stood,  those  two — both  deathly  pale — both  hearts  full  of  iiwe 
unutterable,  and  Death  stood  in  their  midst.  For  the  sec- 
ond time,  Estella  heard  the  mystic  words  of  that  solemn 
service.     Once  again  in  night  and  storm  she  was  a  bride. 

It  was  over.  She  was  Alwyn  Bartram's  wedded  wife! 
With  a  great  cry  she  flung  herself  upon  the  breast  of  the 
dying  woman,  and  broke  out  into  a  passion  of  hysterical 
weeping.  Helen  Mallory  strained  her  to  her  bosom  in  s 
wild  grasp,  the  livid  hue  of  death  stealing  over  her  face. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  Dr.  Sinclair  said,  decidedly.  '*  If 
vour  niece  can  not  restrain  herself.  Miss  Mallory,  she  must 
leave  the  room." 

But  Helen  only  held  her  the  closer. 

**  "JN'ever  again!"  she  whispered,  with  a  radiant  smile. 
**  Oh,  my  dearest,  never  again,  until  we  part  forever!" 

They  were  almost  her  last  words — the  ebbing  life  was  al- 
most gone — dying  truly  with  the  old  year.  An  awful  hush 
fell  upon  them  all.  The  moments  wore  on,  the  wind  rose 
and  fell,  the  sleet  and  hail  beat  against  the  glass,  midnight 
drew  near.  With  the  first  chime  of  the  new  year's  bells  the 
smile  froze  upon  her  face;  with  her  head  upon  the  bride's 


JfA 


iii,:i,.  ,i. 


estella's  husband. 


168 


a  I  don't 
re  ready, 

per.     On 
the  bride 


Trows  im- 


ward,  iio: 
alf  suiio- 
i  through 

r  of  impa- 

the  lawyer 
)d  up  with 
was  di'nly 
the  storm 
and  a  sol- 
hat  raging 

side  they 
full  of  awe 
ir  the  sec- 
at  solemn 
a  bride, 
tided  wife! 
ast  of  the 
hysterical 
)som  in  a 
ler  face, 
lly.     ''  If 
she  must 


int  smile. 
3ver!" 
Ife  was  al- 
Ivvfulhush 
Iwind  rose 
]  midnight 
1  bells  the 
le  bride's 


breast,  the  gentle  eyes  closed,  the  new  day  and  the  new 
year  that  dawned  upon  Estella  a  bride  dawned  upon  Helen 
Mallory  a  corpse. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    DREARY    HONEY-MOON. 

It  was  a  very  lengthy  procession  of  carriages  that  fol- 
lowed Helen  Mallory,  three  days  later,  to  Mount  Auburn. 

She  had  died  with  few  around  her  bedside.  She  had  lived 
ft  lonely  and  secluded  life,  but  all  the  old  friends  who  had 
known  her,  and  known  her  father  and  mother,  assembled 
to  see  her  laid  in  the  grave. 

Perhaps,  too,  curiosity  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
The  news  of  the  extraordinary  marriage  by  her  death-bed 
had  circulated,  and  people  wanted  to  see  this  romantically 
wedded  bride  and  groom. 

So  the  dull  old  house  filled  on  the  funeral  day,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Alwyn  Bartram  were  stared  at  to  their  hearts' 
content. 

Mrs.  x^lwyn  Bartram !  Yes,  she  was  that  now — the  one 
name  of  all  others  on  earth  she  had  most  desired  to  bear! 

Poor  little  lonely  bride!  Pitifully  small,  and  pale,  and 
thin  she  looked  in  her  deep  mourning,  all  her  bright  hair 
brushed  away,  her  eyes  dull  and  sunken  with  incessant 
weeping.  She  had  never  known  how  dearly  she  loved  this 
indulgent  relative — this  gentle  Aunt  Helen — until  she  was 
lost  forever. 

And  the  girlish  tears  that  would  almost  have  been  bliss- 
ful had  they  fallen  upon  Alwyn  Bartram's  breast  fell  slow- 
ly and  wretchedly  upon  that  clay-cold  bosom  or  Norah's 
faithful  shoulder. 

For  Mr.  Bartram  was  very  busy,  of  course.  All  devolved 
upon  him,  and  he  went  about  those  three  days  with  a  face 
01  such  dark  gravity,  not  to  say  gloom,  that  his  poor  little 
bride  quite  trembled  in  the  presence  of  her  idol. 

"  Did  he  love  Aunt  Helen  so  much,  or  did  he  love  me  so 
little?"  she  thought,  with  a  sharp  pang  of  doubt  and  dread. 
"  He  looks  so  unhappy,  and  I  am  afraid  to  speak  to  him 
— 1,  who  am  his  wire  now,  and  who  love  him  so  dearly." 

His  wife!  Oh,  magic  words!  They  thrilled  througli 
the  hearts  of  this  lovesick  little  girl  like  the  mnoc  of 
heaven. 


.1, 


HI'  i 


I  )'■ 


!^^ 


164 


estella's  husband. 


'*  He  will  think  of  nie — he  will  love  me — by  and  by,** 
she  thought,  rapturously.  "  How  can  I  expect  him  to 
love  me  as  1  love  him — he  so  noble,  so  handsome,  so  tal- 
ented, so  far  above  me  every  way?  And  1  am  to  pass  my 
whole  life  by  his  side!  My  love,  my  darling,  my  hus- 
band /" 

But  these  exalted  fits  would  go,  and  moods  of  darkest 
despondency  follow.  Mr.  Bartram  wrapped  himself  in 
gloom  as  in  a  mantle,  and,  had  he  been  anything  less  than 
a  hero,  might  have  been  suspected  of  a  tendency  to  sulki- 
ness. 

Ab  it  was,  he  grew  in  romantic  Essie's  eyes  more  like 
Conrad,  the  Corsair,  every  day,  and  she  began  to  think 
Medora's  life  must  have  been  one  of  the  dreariest  at  times, 
sitting  at  her  black-browed  lord's  feet,  essaying  in  vain  to 
win  one  fleeting  smile. 

The  funeral  day  was  dark  and  raw,  with  a  piercing  east- 
erly wind,  and  a  flutter  of  snowflakes  in  the  leaden  air. 

Shivering  in  her  crape  and  sables,  Mrs.  Alwyn  Bartram 
leaned  upon  her  husband's  arm,  crying  wretchedly  behind 
her  veil,  while  the  sods  rittled  down  and  the  solemn  words 
of  the  burial  service  sounded  in  her  ears. 

Dark  and  stern  as  doom  her  new-made  husband  stood 
beside  her,  his  gloomy  eyes  fixed  upon  the  grave — grown 
strangely  worn  and  haggard  since  the  memorable  Christ- 
mas-eve. 

It  was  all  over — the  carriages  were  rattling  homeward 
chrough  the  chill,  leaden  dusk.  He  sat  beside  his  bride, 
she  still  weeping  incessantly,  and  not  improving  her  pretty 
looks  by  the  process. 

Between  tlie  cold  and  the  tears,  Estella's  nose  was  red 
and  swollen,  her  bright  eyes  dim  and  sunken,  her  cheeks 
white  to  ghastliness.  The  sensitive  eyes  of  the  artist  saw 
all  this  amid  the  trouble  of  greater  things. 

"Audi  thought  her  pretty!"  the  fancy  flashed  upon 
him  through  all  his  gloom.  **  Poor  little  babyish  Essie! 
How  they  will  criticise  Alwyn  Bartram's  bread-and-but- 
ter bride  in  New  York!" 

And  then,  athwart  the  blackening  gloaming,  flashed  the 
radiant  face  of  lovely  Leonie  De  Montreuil — that  faultless 
face,  that  peerless  form,  those  perfect  maouers. 

Contrasts  are  good,  but  not  such  contrasts  as  these.  He 
ground  his  teeth,  and  for  the  moment  was  base  enough  and 


estella's  husband. 


165 


cruel  enough  to  hate  his  unhicky  little  bride  as  well  as 
himself. 

**  Fool  that  I  was  to  sell  myself  to  spite  a  cold-blooded 
jilt!''  he  thought — "  to  insure  the  misery  of  my  own  future 
life  and  that  of  this  weak-witted  girll'^ 

It  was  a  very  dreary  drive.  He  made  no  attempt  to  dry 
the  falling  tears  of  his  companion.  She  had  the  luxury  of 
a  long  and  wretched  cry.  No  one  could  have  despised  him 
more  thoroughly  than  he  despised  himself.  In  all  wide 
America  there  were  few  more  miserable  men,  this  dull 
January  evening,  than  Estella's  husband. 

He  left  his  bride  at  home,  and  wended  his  way  to  the 
lawyer's  ofiBce.  Dark,  and  silent,  and  dreary  as  a  tomb 
was  Helen  Mallory's  old  home — the  silence  of  death  reign- 
ing in  every  room. 

Estella  had  cried  until  she  could  cry  no  longer.  She 
toiled  wearily  up  the  long  stairway  now  to  her  own  room, 
and  sunk  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  her  poor,  pale 
face  hidden  in  the  clothes. 

**  He  does  not  love  me,"  she  thought,  in  dull  despair. 
*'  He  never  loved  me!  Oh,  why  did  he  ask  me  to  marry 
him?    Why  can  1  not  die  and  leave  him  free?*' 

The  night  darkened  down;  she  never  stirred.  She  lay 
there,  forlorn  and  miserable,  not  caring  if  she  ever  rose 
again.  What  was  the  world  and  all  it  contained,  since  the 
idol  of  her  life  was  lost? 

It  was  Norah  who  found  her  out,  and  tried  to  comfort 
her  some  hours  after.  He  whose  place  was  by  her  side 
was  absorbed  in  other  things,  and  it  was  the  faithful  arms 
of  the  old  servant  that  drew  her  close  to  her  heart. 

**  Don't  cry  for  him,  Miss  Essie!"  Norah  said,  in  tones 
of  concentrated  scorn.  "  He  isn't  worth  one  tear.  I  al- 
ways thought  it;  I'm  sure  of  it  now." 

Estella  lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  the  brown  eyes 
quite  flashed. 

"  Hush,  Norah!  Not  one  word  against  him  in  my  hear- 
ing.    He  is  my  husband,  and  I  love  him!" 

Norah  snorted  disdainfully. 

**  Of  course  you  do,  and  he's  begin  ing  to  break  your 
heart  in  time.  Most  men  wait  until  the  honey-moon  is  over 
to  do  that.  Mr.  Alwyn  Bartram  seems  to  be  in  a  little 
more  hurry  than  the  rest.     Oh,"  cried  Norah,  with  a  vi* 


?•.' ' 


hA¥<lr^s 


Im 


raff' II 


I 


166 


estella's  husband. 


cious  glare,  **  how  I  should  like  to  tell  him  a  piece  of  mt 
mindr 

But  strong-minded  as  Norah  undoubtedly  was,  she  was 
not  strong-minded  enough  for  that.  When,  a  little  later, 
Mr.  Bartram  strode  in,  looking  tall,  strong,  black-browed 
and  terrible,  she  shrunk  away  from  him  and  descended  to 
the  kitchen,  muttering  sot  to  voce. 

Few  would  have  had  the  temerity  to  face  the  sullen  lion 
just  then.  Ho  made  straight  for  the  drawing-room,  and 
found  Estella  there  awaiting  him. 

What  a  pallid,  helpless  little  shadow  she  looked  in  her 
trailing  black  robes!  How  mournfully  the  great  brown 
eyes  lifted  themselves  to  his  face  in  silent,  piteous  appeal! 

That  look  touched  even  his  heart— very  hard,  just  now, 
in  its  great  bitterness.  He  leaned  moodily  against  the 
mantel  and  stared  in  the  fire. 

**  Estella,'^  he  said,  abruptly,  '*  I  am  going  to  New  York 
to-morrow. " 

There  was  no  reply.  The  wistful  eyes  turned  upon  him 
again,  but  she  looked  afraid  to  speak. 

*'  I  shall  leave  you  here  with  Norah  for  a  few  weeks,*' 
he  went  on,  hurriedly.  '*  1  must  take  a  house  and  furnish 
it  before  bringing  you  there.  It  is  of  no  use  my  remain- 
ing here  longer,  and  1  don't  fancy  lodging  you  in  a  hotel. 
You  can  remain  here  quietly  with  Norah  until  1  come  for 
you." 

*  Yes." 

She  said  it  so  faintly  so  sadly,  that  he  hardly  heard  it. 
He  looked  up,  but  she  had  shrunk  suddenly  back,  and  sat 
holding  a  hand-screen  before  her  face. 

"  You  do  not  mind,  do  you,  Essie?  You  would  rather 
be  here  with  Norah  for  a  few  weeks  than  lonely  in  a  great 
New  York  hotel .f*  I  should  necessarily  have  to  leave  yoi^ 
very  much  alone — house-hunting  and  furniture-hunting. 
You  would  find  it  horribly  dreary  there,  by  yourself,  among 
strangers.  You  would  rather  remain  here,  would  you 
not?'' 

**  Whatever  you  please." 

Again  so  faintly  that  he  barely  heard  it.  Her  heart  was 
full,  her  voice  was  choked,  but  the  fanciful  little  screen  hid 
the  poor,  pale  face. 

There  was  a  pause. 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


167 


**  Do  you  know,  Estella,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  Helen 
Mallory  has  left  her  whole  fortune  to  me?" 

**Yes,  I  know." 

"  It  should  not  have  been  so;  I  was  both  surprised  and 
sorry.  It  should  have  been  yours— your  separate,  inde- 
pendent estate.  However,  it  will  make  no  dill'erence — :i 
need  make  none;  my  interests  and  yours  are  one  now. 
A.nd,  Estella,  of  course,  as  you  know  nothing  of  housekeep- 
ing, 1  must  engage  some  competent  person  to  take  all  that 
trouble  off  your  shoulders.  I  know  a  lady  in  New  York — 
Mrs.  Hamilton;  she  will  accept  the  situation,  I  think. 
And  Norah — what  of  her?    Does  she  go  wi^h  us?" 

**  1  think  not" 

**  Ah,  well!  it  coesn't  matter.  Mrs.  Hamilton  is  quite 
competent."  He  drew  out  his  watch.  "  Half  past  eight. 
Have  you  had  supper?" 

"No— I  could  not  eat." 

**  No  more  can  I.  Well,  you  had  better  ring  for  Norah 
to  keep  vou  company  this  first  evening  alone.  Poor  Helen! 
1  am  going  to  my  room  to  pack  up,  and  after,  1  have  let- 
ters to  write.  It  will  probably  be  daylight  before  1  get 
through.  As  I  leave  here  at  seven,  it  is  not  worth  my 
while  to  retire.  You  can  tell  Norah  my  plans,  and  be 
ready  to  accompany  me  to  New  York  when  I  return  for 
you  in  two  or  three  weeks.  Mr.  Garl,  the  lawyer,  will 
supply  you  with  whatever  money  you  may  want,  meantime. 
And  as  you  will  probably  be  asleep  when  I  leave  in  the 
morning,  I  had  better  say  good-bye  now.  Don't  distress 
yourself,  Essie,  and  don't  be  lonely;  the  days  will  soon 
pass.     Good-night  and  good-bye!" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  cheek  as  she  sat — such  a  cold, 
careless  kiss — and  then  he  was  gone. 

Gone!  and  Estella  was  left  alone,  this  first  night  after 
the  burial  of  her  kind  friend — alone  in  the  xjilent  and  dreary 
house. 

She  slipped  out  of  her  chair,  down  on  her  knees,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands. 

**  Why  did  he  marry  me?  why  did  he  marry  me?"  she 
thought.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Helen! — dearest,  kindest  auntie  that 
ever  lived  in  this  world — he  does  not  love  me;  he  7iever  will 
love  me!    He  goes  and  leaves  me  alone  already!" 

Estella  did  not  summon  Norah.  For  hours  she  lay 
there  alone  with  her  sorrow.     Of  all  the  troubles  of  the 


' '  PI 


\  <  - 


\  - 1 

J.I 


if 


H 


Jli-, 


*.;  . 


t' 


i  .',11 


168 


estelm's  husband. 


past,  tiere  had  nevei-  bten  any  t^.  go  to  her  heart  like  thii. 
(She  loved  this  mdii  with  all  her  passionate,  impulsive 
soul,  and  now  tLit  he  was  hers — her  husband — he  was 
further  off,  more  utterly  lost,  than  ever. 

She  arose  at  last — it  was  very  late,  and  growing  cold — 
and  staggered  upsu'^irs  to  her  room.  She  had  to  pass  his 
on  her  way,  and  involuntarily  her  footsteps  stopped,  and 
her  heart  seemed  to  pause  in  its  beating. 

She  could  see  the  shining  of  the  light  beneath  the  door; 
she  could  hear  him  moving  to  and  fro,  gathering  together 
his  belongings  for  departure.  He  needed  no  help  of  hers. 
She  turned  suddenly  away,  and  passed  into  her  own  room. 

Mr.  Bartram  departed  very  early  next  morning,  without 
waiting  to  see  any  one.  But  hidden  behind  the  curtains, 
his  wife  of  a  weeli  watched  him  out  of  sight,  with  straining, 
yearning,  impassioned  brown  eyes. 

The  wheels  that  bore  him  from  her  seemed  crushing  over 
her  heart— she  sat  down  on  the  bedside,  pale  and  breath- 
less when  their  last  roll  was  heard,  her  hand  pressed  hard 
over  her  breast,  as  though  to  still  the  intolerable  pain 
there. 

**  Will  I  ever  see  him  again?"  she  thought,  drearily. 
"  Has  he  gone  forever,  and  left  me  here  to  drag  out  my 
weary  life?  Will  he  really — really  come  back,  as  he  said? 
and,  oh,  if  this  be  my  honey-moon,  what  is  my  whole  wed- 
ded life  likely  to  be?" 

She  had  not  slept  all  night — she  was  too  heartsick  and 
wretched  to  sleep  now.  She  dressed  herself  with  listless 
indi£ference,  and  descended  to  breakfast,  with  cheeks 
whiter  than  the  new  year's  snow  piled  high  outside,  and 
hollow,  lack-luster  eyes. 

Norah  looked  at  her  with  indignant  face. 

'*  1  thought  so!  You've  gone  and  kept  awake  all  night. 
Miss  Essie,  fidgeting  and  worrying  yourself  and  other 
people  into  their  graves.  You  look  like  your  own  ghost 
this  morning!" 

*'  Do  1?"  with  a  tired  sigh.  *'  What  does  it  matter, 
Norah,  how  1  look?    There's  no  one  to  care." 

'*  Isn't  there?  /'wi  no  one,  1  suppose,  and  you're  no  one 
yourself;  but  the  man  that's  married  you,  he's  somebody, 
surely,  and  he  cares.  Why  doesn't  he  come  down  to 
breakfast?" 

*'  Because  he  has  gone.' 


>f 


estella's  husband. 


169 


**  OonCi    Gene  where?" 

**Bac»£  to  Kew  York." 

Her  eye?,  filled  as  she  said  it.  She  turned  away,  but 
not  until  she  caught  the  indignant  red  mounting  to 
rforah's  brow. 

*'  Gone  back  to  New  York,  and  left  you  here — his  bride! 
What  do  you  nriean,  Miss  Essie?" 

"  Don't  blame  him,  Norah — don't  be  angry — he  could 
not  help  it.  He  wishes  to  take  a  house  and  furnish  it, 
before  bringing  me  on,  and  he  thought  1  would  prefer 
remaining  here  with  you  to  being  aloi<e  in  a  hotel.  So 
I  would,  too  " — the  last  words  by  a  brave  effort;  *'  and  he 
wishes  to  engage  a  housekeeper,  and  all  that.  He  is  very 
good  and  thoughtful,  Norah,  and  he  knows  best;  and  you 
mustn't — you  mustn't  be  angry  with  him  if  you  love  me.'* 

She  threw  her  arms  round  grim  Norah's  neck,  and 
kissed  her  coaxingly.  And  Norah,  by  a  mighty  effort, 
swalIo"yed  her  just  wrath,  kissed  back,  and  began  busying- 
herself  among  the  breakfast  things. 

**  And  when  is  he  coming  back,  pray?"  she  inquired 
at  length,  when  she  had  sufficiently  mastered  her  feelings. 

"  In  a  few  weeks — as  soon  as  ever  he  can.  I  am  to  be  all 
ready  to  accompany  him;  and  you,  too,  Norah,  if  you  will 
go." 

**  Thank  you  very  much.  Miss  Essie!  but  I  have  my 
own  plans,  and  mean  to  stick  to  'em.  I'll  go  with  no 
man;  1  wouldn't  trust  one  of  them  as  far  as  1  could  see 
him.  \rhen  you  go,  I  shall  leave  this  place  and  set  up  a 
little  business  for  myself.  I  will  have  a  house  of  my  own, 
and  be  master  and  mistress  all  my  life,  and  if  ever  you 
get  tired  of  New  York,  or  your  handsome  husband  or  his 
fine  friends,  come  to  me,  and  you  will  always  be  sure  of  a 
welcome  and  shelter;  and  that  day  will  come  before  long," 
muttered  Norah,  prophetically,  as  she  flounced  out  of  the 
room. 

The  days  went  very  slowly  at  Chelsea.  Estella  wisely 
kept  busy,  preparing  her  wardrobe,  packing  her  pet  books 
and  pictures,  practicing  assiduously,  studying  hard,  and 
doing  her  best,  poor  child,  to  stave  off  thought. 

But  the  January  days  dragged  dismally  their  slow  length 
along.  Mr.  Bartram  had  written  once — a  brief  note — say- 
ing he  had  arrived  safely,  and  had  taken  a  house,  and  en- 
gaged a  housekeeper.     It  was  very  brief  and  scant,  begin- 


M 


■  ! 


■  1 


m 


170 


estella's  husband. 


it 


nmg  "  My  Dear  Estella/'  and  ending  *'  Very  afiEectionately 
yours  *' — very  scant  and  business-like,  and  Estella's  heart 
sunk  as  she  read  it. 

**  If  he  had  only  once  called  mo  his  wife!"  she  mur- 
mured, sadly.  "But  he  wants  to  forget  that,  if  he  can. 
Ah,  if  1  were  only  beautiful,  and  talented,  and  aocom- 

{)lished,  how  I  would  try  to  compel  him  to  love  me  I  But 
ittle,  and  ignorant,  and  plain,  and  silent,  as  I  am,  what 
is  the  use?" 

»JanL  "v  p;  3d — February  came.  Estella's  honey-moon 
was  ovt.  ." ;  e  moved  about,  the  pallid  shadow  of  herself 
— thin,  o-hrk:,-    fair  and  frail  as  a  spirit. 

She  nevtA  coLHined;  she  rarely  spoke  of  him  now. 
But  in  her  heart  theie  was  but  one  thought,  in  her  dreams 
one  image. 

The  sweet,  young  face  took  a  more  patient  tenderness — 
the  soft,  brown  eyes  a  sadder  beauty  than  of  old. 

And  sitting,  playing  softly  to  herself  in  the  lonely  winter 
gloamings,  her  heart  chanted  unconsciously  poor  Mari- 
ana's mournful  refrain: 

"  She  only  said, '  My  life  is  dreary. 
He  Cometh  not,'  she  said. 
She  sighed,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary; 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!'  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MRS.    RUTHERFORD  REPENTS. 

The  theater  was  crowded;  the  play  was  "  Hamlet;"  the 
star  of  the  evening  Edwin  Booth.  Everybody  was  there 
and  diamonds  flashed,  and  bright  eyes  outshone  them,  and 
fans  fluttered,  and  perfumes  filled  the  air,  and  Vanity  Fair 
mustered  strong  to  do  honor  to  the  melancholy  Prince  of 
Denmark. 

The  first  act  was  half  over,  when  a  sensation  ran  through 
one  part  of  Lhe  house — that  part  nearest  the  stage. 

A  little  group — two  ladies  and  a  gentleman — entered 
their  box,  and  a  fire  of  lorgnettes  was  instantly  leveled  in 
that  direction.  It  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kutherford,  and 
their  friend  Mrs.  Manners. 

"  The  little  Kutherford  is  radiant  as  the  goddess  Hebe," 
one  of  the  group  of  fashionably  got-up  young  men  ob- 
served,  with  a  drawl.     "  She  outdoes  herself  to-night" 


estella's  husband. 


171 


Y 


n 


Matrimony,  and  Rutherford's  bank-checks  agree  with 
her/'  a  second  said,  with  a  shrug.  ''  {She  reigns  en  pi  in- 
ccsae  in  the  miiliaiiuiro'a  up-town  p:ilii,oe.  By  Jove!  s.  .  ia 
beautiful,  though.  There  is  nothing  like  her  i.  the 
house/' 

*'  I  saw  Bartram  this  afternoon,*'  observed  a  third,  "  and 
remarkably  well  1  thou;;ht  the  beggar  looking.  He's  re- 
covered, I  fancy.  Men  have  died  and  worms  have  eaten 
them,  you  know,  '  but  not  for  love.'  " 

*'  Ho  was  badly  hipped,  though.  I  saw  him  the  wed- 
ding-morning, half  hidden  behind  a  pillar,  glowering  like 
grim  death.  It  reminded  one  of  those  Venetian  pictures, 
all  pillars,  and  gondolas,  and  c^  A.t,*^s  out  of  doors,  with 
two  lovers  billing  and  cooing  in  tbt  ^'o.  ground,  and  a  bravo 
in  the  rear,  with  cloak,  and  da^*: .,  •%  u.id  cocked  hat.  But 
we  don't  do  that  sort  of  thin^,  .o.adays;  we  don't  break 
our  hearts  for  little  dots  of  fliiij  ,3  like  Leonie,  nor  drive 
our  stiletto  into  the  lucky  mar  '^  ribs.  Bartram's  got  over 
it  like  better  men,  and  the  l  ;jj  :  thing  you  hear,  he'll  be 
marrying  a  fortune — Blanche  White,  for  instance,  the 
richest  girl  in  New  York,  and  an  old  worshiper  at  his 
shrine." 

"  How  grandly  the  Parisian  princess  ignores  her  bouV' 
geois  husband!"  the  first  speaker  said,  still  staring  hard  at 
the  Rutherford  box.  **  She  wears  his  diamonds,  and  drives 
his  high-stepping  ponies,  and  graces  the  head  of  his  table, 
and  snubs  him  incontinently.  Let's  go  rouid  and  pay 
our  respects." 

The  curtain  fell.  The  three  young  men  arose,  and 
made  their  way  to  where  the  beauty  of  the  night  sat. 

Radiantly  lovely  looked  Leonie  in  flashing  silk  and  dia- 
monds, her  black  eyes  like  stars,  her  exquisite  face  Wi'eathed 
in  its  most  brilliant  smile,  as  she  chattered  mih.  Mrs. 
Manners. 

She  turned  the  glorious  light  of  those  Assyrian  orbs  in 
a  flashing  glance  of  welcome  upon  the  three  gentlemen 
sauntering  in,  and  old  Rutherford,  with  a  portentous  frown 
on  his  rugged  brow,  retreated  before  their  advance. 

*'  Scented,  conceited,  young  puppies!"  he  thought. 
'*  They  see  hov  9  treats  me,  and  they  take  the  advan- 
tage. Look  hr  ^he  smiles  upon  them,  and  1 — I  am  no 
more  to  her  tb        le  dirt  under  her  feet!" 

"  I  thought  you  were  out  of  town,  monsieur,"  Leonie 


tl 


i|i,.if' 


!      :''      '     t'l 


172 


estella's  husband. 


BaiJy  loaning  back,  and  looking  brightly  up  in  the  face  of 
the  goutlemna  bending  over  her.  '*  When  did  you  re- 
turn?" 

**  Last  night.  *  Through  pleasures  and  palaces  though 
we  may  roam  *  we  are  sure  eventually  to  return  to  New 
Yor.c.  By  the  bye,  another  friend  of  yours  has  returned, 
Mrs.  Rutherford.     Look  there!*' 

He  waved  his  glass.  Leonie  raised  her  own  jeweled 
lorgnette,  and  saw,  sitting  in  the  box  directly  opposite, 
her  rejected  lover,  Alwyn  Bartram.  By  his  side  sat  a  tall 
and  stately  blonde — a  handsome  girl,  and  exquisitely 
dressed,  whose  brightest  smiles  seemed  ail  for  him. 

**  Handsome  couple,  eh?  Dark  and  fair — he,  swart  as 
a  Spaniard;  she,  fair  as  a  lily.  '  We  always  return  to  our 
first  loves,*  saith  the  French  proverb,  and  in  this  case  it 
is  confirmed.  The  handsome  Blanche  was  Bartram's 
earliest  adoration,  before  ** — with  a  sidelong  look  and 
bow — **  a  more  brilliant  star  arose  to  eclipse  her.'* 

Mrs.  Rutherford  dropped  her  glass  with  a  laugh.  But 
her  companion  saw  a  sudden  light  in  her  eyes,  a  sudden 
compression  of  the  small  mouth. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  pay  compliments  now,  Mr. 
Waldrou — the  time  is  past.  Mr.  Bartram,  like  yourself, 
has  been  out  of  town,  then?" 

"Lost  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  Massachusetts,"  her 
companion  answered,  coolly,  *'  where  an  ancient  aunt  or  a 
fairy  godmother,  or  something  of  that  kind,  has  died  re- 
cently and  left  him  a  fortune.  He  wears  mourning,  you 
perceive.  There  was  another  rumor  afloat  about  his  hav- 
ing wooed  and  won  a  Boston  heiress,  but  that  is  hardly 
likely,  is  it?  It  doesn't  look  like  it;  and  besides,  he  could 
hardly  go  so  fast,  even  in  this  rapid  age." 

"  Not  in  the  least  likely,"  Mrs.  Rutherford  said,  coldly. 
'*  I  scarcely  credit  the  other  story,  either — about  the 
mythical  fortune.  Men  don't  lose  one,  and  gain  another, 
all  in  a  week  or  two.  Mr.  Bartram  has  friends  in  Massa- 
chusetts—he has  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  them  ever  since 
I  knew  him. " 

"  How  well  Alwyn  is  looking!"  Mrs.  Manners  whispered, 
maliciously.  "Do  you  see  him,  Leonie  dear?  An!  he 
and  Blanche  condescend  to  see  us,  and  bow.  How  radiantly 
she  smiles  upon  him — how  triumphant  she  looks!  There 
must  have  been  something  in  the  old  story,  after  all,  then^ 


kstella's  husband. 


17» 


face  of 
you  re- 

though 

to  Neve 
turned  y 

[eweled 
pposite, 
it  a  tall 
uisitely 

n^art  as 
I  to  our 
I  case  it 
rtram's 
Dk  and 

u  But 
sudden 

w,  Mr. 
)urself, 

"her 
nt  or  a 
ied  re- 
g,  you 
s  hav- 
hardJy 

could 

joldly. 
It  the 
I  other, 
[assa- 
Ir  since 

)ered, 

i!   he 

Jiantly 

iThere 

theO' 


And  he — upon  my  word,  dear,  he  grows  handsomer  than 
ever." 

Loonie  Rutherford  ground  hor  little  white  teeth.  Her 
eyes  rested  on  her  husband — fat,  fifty,  vulvar  and  sulky 
— then  went  back  to  the  man  she  loved.  Yes,  loved — a 
wedding-ring  and  the  name  of  Kutherford  could  not  oblit- 
erate that  old  passion.  She  loved  him,  now  that  of  her 
own  free  will  she  had  jilted  him,  a  thousand  times  better 
than  ever.  She  hud  always  been  more  or  less  jealoLS  of 
the  stately  blonde,  Blanche,  and  now  to  see  him  fitting  by 
her  side,  listening  to  her  lowest  word,  the  recipient  of  her 
brightest  smiles,  stung  her  to  the  quick. 

*'  And  she  is  an  heiress,"  Leonie  thought,  with  a  flash- 
ing glance  of  hatred  at  her  rival,  **  and  is  ready  to  marry 
him  to-morrow,  if  he  asks  her.  And  I  love  him,  and  he 
knows  it!  1  have  all  I  sold  myself  for — the  glory  of  the 
world — but  is  the  game  worth  the  candle,  after  all?" 

The  play  went  on,  and  the  play  within  the  play.  Mr. 
Bartram,  when  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  pointed  out  to  him 
by  his  fair  companion,  had  bowed  across  with  infinite  grace 
and  calm,  and  then  went  on  talking,  with  one  single  alter- 
ation of  face. 

'*  Do  men  change  so  easily?"  Blanche  White  thought; 
**  or  did  he  really  love  that  little  black-eyed  doll?" 

**  How  beautiful  Mrs.  Rutherford  is  looking  to-night  I" 
she  said,  aloud.     **  Her  best,  I  think." 

*'  Mrs.  Rutherford  makes  a  point  of  ahvays  looking  hef 
best,  does  she  not?"  he  answered,  coolly;  **  and,  as  usual, 
surrounded  by  adorers." 

"  While  that  poor  old  man  scowls  in  the  background," 
laughed  Blanche.  "  If  he  were  not  quite  so  fat,  and  quite 
so  red-faced,  it  would  be  really  tragical.  They  say  he  is 
furiously  jealous  already,  but  then  old  men  always  are." 

""  And  Madame  Leonie  seems  determined  he  shall  have 
substantial  cause.  How  Waldron  suns  himself  in  those 
tropical  smiles!  But  see,  the  curtain  ascends,  and,  after 
all — with  reverence  be  it  spoken — Booth  is  better  worth 
watching  just  now  than  even  the  brilliant  Leonie." 

'*  Ah!  is  he?  Then  Mr.  Bartram's  opinions  have  under- 
gone a  change  of  late,"  the  young  lady  could  not  help 
saying. 

Mr.  Bartram  ran  his  fingers  through  his  waving  hair  with 
the  sangfroid  of  a  prince. 


m 


.1! 


•I'j      ! 


M  !' 


t    ' 


»!<  A- 


174 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


(( 


\i^^ 


I  y. 


Rather— in  many  rospoots.  It  is  the  nature  of  th« 
animal — man — to  change  and  grow  wiser;  1  have  done 
both/' 

He  turned  quietly  to  the  stage,  and  never  once  during 
the  remainder  of  the  evening  did  his  fair  companion  eaten 
bis  eye  wandering  to  that  opposite  box. 

He  was  completely  absorbed  by  herself  as  though  no 
other  woman  existed  in  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  And 
the  cheeks  of  the  heiress  flushed  with  pleaduro,  and  her 
blue  eyes  shot  triumphant  glances  at  the  dark  fairy  across 
the  way. 

When  all  was  over,  and  he  drew  her  arm  within  his  own 
to  lead  her  to  her  carriage  her  heart  beat  hi^h  with  hope. 

**  He  was  mine  until  Leonie  De  Montreud  appeared," 
she  thought.  **  He  snail  be  mine  again^  and  that  before 
long." 

The  two  streams,  descending  opposite  stairways,  met 
face  to  face  in  the  vestibule.  Mr.  l^artram,  looKing  up 
from  adjusting  Miss  White's  cloak  with  solicitous  atten- 
tion, met  full  the  great  black  eyes  of  Leonie — his  lost  love. 
At  the  same  instant  Mrs.  Manners  gayly  extended  her 
hand. 

**  Truant,"  she  said,  **  we  have  not  seen  you  for  an  age. 
Where  have  you  been  hiding  yourself?  Leonie,  my  dear," 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  '*  don't  you  see  our  old  friend, 
Mr.  Bartram?' 

**  Yes,  1  see  him,"  Leonie  answered,  quietly,  holding 
out  her  tiny  gloved  hand,  **  and  am  happy  to  welcome 
him  back  to  New  York." 

Mr.  Bartram  bowed  to  both  ladies,  with  a  face  of  change- 
less color. 

**  And  I  am  happy  to  find  an  opportunity  so  soon  to 
offer  my  congratulations!  1  wish  you  every  happiness, 
Mrs.  Rutherford.  Miss  Blanche,  the  crowd  is  dispersing. 
I  think  we  can  find  our  carriage  now. " 

He  led  her  away,  but  not  until  Leonie's  cavalier,  Mr. 
Waldron,  caught  her  passionate,  yearning  glance. 

"  So,"  he  thought,  **  sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter! 
And  they  used  to  say  she  had  no  heart!  By  Jove!  1 
wouldn't  stand  in  poor  Rutherford's  shoes  for  all  his 
thousands. " 

**  Hurry!"  Leonie  said,  with  a  sudden  shiver.  **  Take 
us  out  of  this,  for  pity's  sake!    I  am  cold." 


mge- 
[d  to 

sing. 

Mr. 

Irter! 

i!   1 

his 

'ake 


E8TELLA*8    HUSBAND. 


175 


And  so  the  several  lovors  liail  met  &nd  parted  again,  and 
even  the  jealous  luKsbiind,  watching  with  angry  old  eyes, 
saw  nothing  in  the  meeting  to  stir  up  his  ire.  But  be- 
neath ! 

Alwyn  Bartram  wont  to  his  hotel  that  night — his  old, 
luxurious  rooms — and  paced  up  and  down  those  gilded 
Apartments  for  hours,  with  Hushing  eyes  and  clinched 
teeth,  and  a  heart  full  of  maddening  pain. 

He  had  much  better  have  gone  to  bed  and  to  sleep 
than  worn  out  his  boots  and  the  carpet  in  that  high- 
tragedy  style;  but  a  **  haunting  shape,  an  image  gay,'' 
danced  deliriously  before  him,  and  drove  him  nearly  wild 
with  jealous  rage. 

*' How  beautiful  she  looked!  How  brightly  she  smiled 
the  old,  enchuiiting,  irresistible  smile  I  Witch,  sorceress, 
siren!  heartless,  bloodless  ilirt!  Such  won  en  are  only 
born  to  be  the  curse  of  man!" 

There  was  not  one  thought  of  the  poor,  little,  pale  girl 
he  had  married  in  his  heart.  It  was  Leonie's  image — 
peerless  Leonie — hers  alone  that  haunted  him  into  the 
small  hours,  and  followed  him  even  into  his  feverish  morn- 
ing dreams. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  drove  quietly  home  beside  her  husband. 
But  she  shrunk  away  into  the  furthest  corner,  shivering  in 
her  ermine  wraps,  with  black  eyes  that  glowed  like  live 
stars  in  the  dusk. 

Mr.  Rutherford  sulky  as  he  was  (and  sulkiness  had 
been  his  normal  state  since  his  wedding-day),  essayed  a 
commonplace  or  two,  but  was  put  down  at  once  by  an 
outbreak  of  passionate  impatience: 

**  For  pity's  sake,  Mr.  Rutherford,  let  me  alone  I  I'm 
tired  to  death,  and  as  sleepy  as  I  can  be.  Don't  torment 
me  with  questions!" 

**  You  were  wide  enough  awake  ten  minutes  ago,"  the 
crushed  worm  ventured  to  retort,  *'  and  found  answers 
enough  for  that  puppy  Waldron.  It  is  only  when  your 
husband  talks  to  you,  Mrs.  Rutherford,  that  you  are  too 
tired  and  sleepy  to  reply." 

**  When  my  husband  finds  anything  half  as  interesting  to 
say  as  Mr.  Waldron,  I  may  possibly  answer  him,  too/  the 
lady  responded,  frigidly.  **  Meanwhile,  be  good  eiough 
to  let  me  alone." 

Mrs.  Rutherford's  maid  found  her  mistress  uniifiiuJll 


t\ 


Hi!   ( 


;«■ 


r 


l76 


ESTELLA  S    HUSBAND. 


i    ilv, 


fractious  and  ill-tempered  this  particular  night,  and  all  the 
while  she  sat  under  Mile  Aglae's  hands,  the  low,  dark 
brow  was  knitted  with  an  expression  of  intolerable  pain. 
Mrs.  Rutherford  was  repenting,  and  repentance  came  too 
late. 

When  her  maid  left  her,  all  draped  in  her  loose  white 
robe,  her  rich  black  hair  unbound,  she  covered  that  wicked, 
beautiful  face  of  hers  with  both  ringed  hands,  while  slow, 
passionate,  wretched  tears  dropped  through  the  slender 
fingers. 

"Oh,  fool,  fool,  fool  that  I  have  been!'^  she  thought, 
bitterly.  '*  Miserable,  inconsistent  fool!  foi  loving  him  as 
I  do,  as  I  ever  must  do,  I  yet  would  act  as  I  have  acted, 
were  the  past  mine  again  to-morrow.  Wealth  and  luxury 
are  as  essential  to  me  as  the  air  1  breathe.  Were  1  his 
wife  this  moment,  and  he  poor,  in  spite  of  all  my  love  1 
would  be  miserable.  '* 

She  arcse,  and  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  exquisite 
dressing-room,  a  picture  of  beauty  in  itself. 

"How  well  he  looked!  Handsome  as  a demi-god,  and 
all  devotion  to  the  insipid  Blanche.  W  ill  he  do  as  I  have 
done — marry  her,  I  wonder?  At  least  he  need  never  be 
Ashamed  of  his  wife,  as  I  am  of  that  horribly  odious  old 
man.  Has  he  forgotten  me  so  soon?  Has  the  old  passion- 
ate love  quite  died  out?  Has  he  nothing  left  for  Leonie, 
the  false,  but  scorn  and  contempt?  I  will  know,"  she 
said,  inwardly,  setting  her  teeth.  "  We  will  meet  in 
society.  From  his  own  lips  I  will  hear  what  he  thinks,  and 
after — *  after  that  the  deluge. '  '* 

Mrs.  Rutherford  went  to  bed,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
just,  and  Mr.  Rutherford,  the  millionaire,  might  have 
gone  for  sympathy  to  Alwyn  Bartram's  wife,  for  his  im- 
age, in  his  spouse's  dreams,  sleeping  and  waking,  was  quiio 
as  totally  ignored. 

But  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  made  one  little  mistake — slie 
did  not  meet  her  old  lover  in  society.  Business  had  brought 
Mr.  Bartram.  to  New  York,  and  he  devoted  himself  to 
business  and  the  company  of  his  bachelor  friends,  and 
Vanity  Fair  saw  very  little  of  him.  His  mourning  was 
one  excuse;  but  then  he  was  house-hunting,  and  had  en- 
gaged a  housekeeper,  and  these  facts  leaked  out  in  spite  of 
his  grim  taciturnity.  He  was  married,  bad  a  mysterious 
wife  hidden  awav  in  Boston,  ami   tbn  rumor  spread  and 


of  the 
have 
;  im- 

qniio 

-slie 
ought 
Hf   to 
and 
was 
en- 
ite  of 
rious 
I  and 


d 


estella's  husband. 


177 


gained  ground  every  day.  It  reached  the  ears  of  Leonie 
Kutherford,  aud  was  the  lasL  drop  added  to  her  already 
overtlovving  cup  of  repentant  bitterness.  In  vain  she  had 
dressed  exquisitely  and  looked  beautiful  and  gone  every- 
where in  hope  of  meeting  him.  lie  was  not  to  be  met;  and 
driven  to  desperation,  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  guilty  of  the 
maddest  act  of  her  life.  She  wrote  to  Mr.  Bartram  a 
note: 


n 


T 


want  to  see  you.  You  have  letters  and  pictures  of 
mill  I  of  yours.  Will  you  come  to-morrow  evening  at 
eight,  and  fetch  ihem  with  you.     1  shall  be  quite  alone." 

There  was  neither  date  nor  signature  to  this  rash  epistle. 
It  needed  none.  Mr.  Bartram  would  have  known  that 
thick,  slippery  French  paper,  with  its  fanciful  silver  mono- 
gram— that  unfaltering,  spidery  Italian  tracery — the  wide 
world  over. 

He  was  alone  in  his  room  when  it  came,  and  his  face 
flushed  dark  red,  and  his  largo,  deep  eyes  glowed  like  coals 
of  fire  as  he  read.     His  triumph  had  come. 

**  She  takes  the  initiative,"  he  thou/;ht,  with  that  sar- 
donic smile  of  fierce  exultation.  "  Women  never  learn  to 
wait.  You  want  to  weave  your  old  chains,  my  beautiful 
Leonie— to  enslave  your  old  bondman  once  more;  and  I  am 
to  hold  out  my  imbecile  hands  for  the  flowery  fetters.  You 
can't  meet  me  in  society,  so  you  step  a  little  out  of  your 
patrician  way,  and  face  me  on  my  own  gjround.  The  sulky 
mountain  won't  come  to  Mohammed,  so  pretty  Mohammed 
comes  to  the  mountain.  You  have  heard  your  slave  has 
broken  his  chains  and  got  married  to  an  heiress,  and  you 
can't  believe  it,  and  you  want  to  learn  the  truth  from  head- 

Juarters.     Very  well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Rutherford,  you  shall, 
will  keep  your  appointment.     I  will  be  with  you  to-mor- 
row night." 

Just  ten  minutes  later  than  the  hour  named,  Mr.  Alwyn 
Bartram  rang  the  door-bell  of  that  stately  Fifth  Avenue 
mansion,  aud  was  admitted  at  once  by  the  well-trained 
lackey  into  the  sumptuous  drawing-room.  Very  sumptu- 
ous, indeed;  almost  barbaric  in  its  splendor  of  gildisig,  of 
painting  and  color,  and  a  fitting  chamber  for  the  lovely 
little  lady  who  sat  alone  in  its  vast  grandeur.  She  arose 
and  came  forward,  looking  like  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies, 
in  a  robe  that  seemed  woven  of  spun  sunbeams,  aud  with 


178 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


I>  h  t 


i    ) 


liW^' 


sS:  I 


it,-,....- 


■f:'  ih 


il 


diamond  stars  blazing  in  her  dead-black  hair.  Had  she 
dressed  like  this  for  him?  No;  Mrs.  Kutherford  was 
robed  for  a  ball,  and  waiting  had  flushed  her  dark  cheeks 
and  kindled  a  streaming  fire  in  her  glorious  eyes.  She  was 
moi'e  than  beautiful — she  was  dazzling;  but  if  Alwyn  Bar- 
tram  was  dazzled,  his  fixed  and  resolute  face  hid  it  well. 
She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  long,  wistful,  imploring  look 
up  in  his  eyes;  but  he  just  touched  it  with  his  cold  fingers^ 
and  let  it  fall. 

"  1  hope  1  have  not  kept  you  waiting,  Mrs.  Rutherford,'^ 
he  said,  speaking  first.  "  Eight  was  the  hour,  I  believe. 
1  must  beg  your  pardon  for  not  returning  you  property 
sooner,  but  really  1  have  been  so  occupied  of  late  that  it 
quite  slipped  my  memory.  I  think  you  will  find  every- 
thing correct  here  " — he  laid  a  little  parcel  on  the  table — 
**  and  I  hope  you  will  not  feel  it  inconvenient  to  let  me  have 
mine.  ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  flashed.  Every  cold 
word  had  stung  her  vanity  to  the  quick. 

**  It  is  quite  convenient,  Mr.  Bartram.  I  have  them 
ready.*'  She  swept  down  the  room  and  lifted  a  tiny  pack- 
age off  the  piano.  "'  They  should  have  been  restored  long 
since,  could  1  but  have  met  you.  You  have  turned  her- 
mit, I  believe,  and  never  go  out  now?" 

*'  By  no  means,  Mrs.  Kutherford.  I  go  out  a  great  deal. 
But  house-hunting  is  quite  a  new  Ime  of  business  to  me; 
and  house-hunting  in  this  city  in  the  month  of  January 
is  rather  a  formidable  process.  Besides,  1  have  lost  a 
friend  quite  recently,  as  you  may  have  heard.'' 

*'  Ah!    Your  uncle?" 

"No;  Miss  Helen  Mallory  of  Boston — a  very  old  and 
very  dear  friend  indeed." 

**  And  gained  a  fortune,  have  you  not?"  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford asked,  carelessly.     "  Rumor  says  so,  at  least. " 

**  Rumor  is  quite  correct  in  this  instance.  Yes,  Miss 
Mallory  left  me  all  she  possessed.  No  princely  inheritance 
— a  mere  pittance,  1  dare  say,  when  compared  with  Mr. 
Rutherford  s  countless  thousands.  But  then  1  am  not  am- 
bitious, and  it  will  suffice  very  well  for  the  humble  tastes 
of  myself  and — my  wife." 

*'  Your  wife?" 

*'  Most  certainly!  Have  you  not  heard  I  am  married, 
Mrs.  Rutherford?    Surprising!    I  iancied  every  one  knew 


estella's  husband. 


179 


a 


it  by  this  time.  The  affair  was  arranged  on  the  quiet — my 
wife  was  the  late  Miss  Mallory's  ward;  but  I  thought  it 
was  tolerably  well-known  by  now.  You  see,  the  excellent 
example  of  my  friends,  Mrs.  Kutherford,  is  not  altogether 
thrown  away  upon  me,  after  all.  Thanks  for  the  letters; 
we  will  make  a  bonfire  of  our  old  folly.  Permit  nie  to  bid. 
you  good-evening — I  perceive  you  are  going  out.  ^' 

She  never  spoke.  Her  face  had  turned  of  a  dead  waxen 
whiteness,  from  brow  to  chin;  her  great  dark  eyes  had 
elowly  dilated  while  he  talked.  She  loved  him — every 
feature  in  that  colorless  face  told  that.  The  jilted  lover's 
triumph  was  complete. 

"Good-evening,  Mrs.  Rutherford!'*  he  repeated,  his 
powerful  eyes  meeting  hers  full.  *'  1  trust  you  will  njoy 
yourself  at  the  ball. " 

There  was  no  answer;  the  shock  had  been  too  great.  With 
a  smile  upon  his  face,  Alwyn  Bartram  run  down  the  mar- 
ble steps,  and  out  under  the  January  stars. 

Two  hours  later,  Mrs.  Rutherford  made  her  entrance  into 
the  crowded  ball-room,  more  beautiful,  more  elegant,  more 
brilliant  than  ever.  She  outshone  herself  to-night.  She 
laughed,  she  talked,  she  flirted,  as  even  she  had  never  done 
before. 

*'  And  Alwyn  Bartram  is  really  married,"  she  said, 
laughingly,  as  she  hung  upon  Mr.  Waldron's  arm.  *'  Lucky 
fellow — and  to  a  Boston  heiress!  But  she — poor  thing — 
don't  you  fancy  her  honey-moon  must  be  rather  of  the 
dreariest,  spent  alone?  I  shall  certainly  call  upon  her,  as 
soon  as  she  arrives.  1  am  dying  of  curiosity!  She  ought 
to  be  pretty — Alwyn  Bartram's  wife." 


*i:t^ 


th'y,     l\ 


i   ' 


Miss 
tance 

Mr. 

am- 
'astes 


'ried, 
knew 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MRS.    BARTRAM   ENTERS   SOCIETY. 

The  January  snows  had  melted,  and  the  ides  of  Febru- 
ary had  come  and  nearly  gone.  The  shrill  winds  whistled 
drearily  up  and  down  the  dull  streets  of  quiet  Chelsea,  and 
the  tall  poplars  stood  grim  and  stripped,  and  rattled  their 
dead  arms  in  the  cold  blast.  And  Estella  Mallory — nay, 
Estella  Bartram — had  sat,  day  after  day,  and  night  after 
night,  alone,  and  watched  the  ©erio  prospect  with  hope- 
lessly sorrowful  eyes. 


180 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAin). 


1  i 


.\^ 


n 


"  Will  he  never  come?"  she  thought.  "  Has  he  gone 
and  left  me  forever?    Oh,  if  he  would  but  write!'' 

For  Mr.  Bartram,  absorbed  in  his  various  occupations, 
had  found  time  to  write  but  that  first  brief  note  to  his  neg- 
lected little  bride. 

He  had  no  intention  of  being  deliberately  unkind  to  her; 
he  only  overlooked  her.  His  feelings  were  all  negative 
where  Estella  was  concerned. 

*'  And,  besides,  it  is  not  worth  while  writing,"  he  said, 
j  to  himself,  **  since  I  will  go  for  her  so  shortly  now;  and  we 
i  really  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other." 

Mr.  Bertram's  *'  shortly  "  resolved  itself  into  the  close 
of  February.  It  was  very  near  the  last  of  the  month, 
when,  one  chill,  starlight  evening,  he  walked  up  the  old 
familiar  street,  and  rung  the  bell  of  the  silent  house. 

How  hopelessly  stagnant  and  still  everything  was!  How 
dark  and  dreary  the  whole  front  of  the  house! 

"  Pool  little  girl!'*  he  thought,  with  a  twinge  of  compunc- 
tion; "  it  is  like  being  shut  in  a  prison.  I  am  sorry  I  left 
her  so  long  alone." 

Norah  opened  the  door,  and  stared  stonily  at  the  young 
man,  no  smile  of  welcome  or  recognition  on  her  grim  face. 

But  Mr.  Bartram  stepped  in  at  once,  as  into  his  own 
house,  with  a  cool  nod. 

**  How  are  you,  Norah?  And  how  is  Esttlla?  Where 
shall  1  find  her?" 

"Your  wife  is  in  the  drawing-rooii; ,  Mr«  Bartram," 
Norah  said,  in  a  voice  as  acid  as  her  face.  '*  She  ain't 
expectin'  you.  If  you  do:  '.  take  care,  she^ll  think  you  a 
ghost." 

Mr.  Bartram  did  noi;  wai^  he  was  springing  lightly  up 
the  stairs. 

The  drawing-room  door  was  ajar,  and,  faint,  and  sweet, 
he  could  hear  Estella  singing  in  the  gloaming.  Only  the 
flickering  fire-light  filled  the  room,  and  the  light  of  the 
solemn  stars  glimmered  through  the  undrawn  curtains. 

The  little  black  figure  at  the  piano  looked  only  a  darker 
shadow  among  the  shadows,  and  her  mournful  old  song 
sounded  sadly  as  the  last  cadence  of  a  funereal  hymn: 

**  On  the  banks  of  Allan  water, 

When  brown  Autumn  spreads  its  store, 
Btill  was  seen  the  miller's  daughteii 
Bvis,  she  smiled  no  more. 


own 


'here 


ff 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND.  181 

For  the  summer  griof  had  brought  her. 

And  the  soldier  false  was  he; 
On  the  banks  of  Allan  waler 

None  so  sad  as  she. ' ' 

Her  voice,  faltering  throughout,  died  away  altogether, 
and  her  face  fell  forward  in  her  hands,  with  a  sob. 

Alwyn  Bartram,  standing  in  the  door- way,  never  forgot 
:hat  lirelit  scene — never  forgot  that  pang  of  sharp  re- 
morse with  which  that  shuddering  sob  fell  upon  his  ears. 

*'  rpromised  Helen  Mallory  to  love  and  cherish  her,"  he 
thought;  "  and  see  how  I  keep  my  word." 

He  started  forward.  At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  she 
sprung  to  her  feet — doubt,  recognition,  delight,  in  every 
feature.     She  stood  still,  incapable  of  sound  or  speech. 

"  My  poor  little  Essie!"  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  with  a 
sudden  pity  that  was  near  akin  to  love.  "  My  dear  little 
girl!  my  little  wife!  I  have  co:i*8  at  last!'* 

**  At  last!" — her  head  fell  forward  on  his  shoulder,  with 
an  hysterical  sob — *'  at  last!  Oh,  Alwyn,  I  thought  you 
would  never  come  again!" 

"  What!  thought  so  badly  of  me  as  that?"  the  young 
man  answered,  with  a  very  conscience-stric'ien  laugh; 
**  thought  I  had  deserted  my  pretty  bride  in  the  heart  of 
the  honey-moon?  No,  no!  Essie,  our  parting  is  over;  I 
have  come  to  carry  you  off  from  dull  Chelsea,  as  the  prince 
cari'ies  off  the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  your  pet  T^nnysoir's 
poem.  Come,  let  me  look  at  you — lift  your  fa.'e,  Eiisic, 
and  let  me  look  at  my  wife!" 

He  raised  it  up— oh,  such  an  inexpressibly  bappy  face 
now — and  smiled  down  in  the  radiant  brown  eye^;,  fall  of 
golden  glitter. 

**  My  pretty,  pale  bride!  my  :!  with  the  golden  «^yes! 
where  have  your  red  cheeks  g<  ..e  to?  You  are  as  pale 
and  wan  as  a  spirit — more  like  I'ndine  than  over.  By  the 
bye,  Essie,  the  '  Undine  '  is  finished  and  sent  in;  we  will 
see  what  the  connoisseurs  say  /6'  time.  And  now,  have 
you  dined?  Because  I  have  i  jl,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
feel  hungry." 

**  Dinner  will  be  ready  directly,"  Estella  answered, 
brightly.  "  We  have  had  ours — Norah  and  I.  Norah 
always  insists  upon  dinner,  whether  one  feels  like  dining 
or  not." 

"And  Norah  is  very  right.     1   ithing;  is  more  conduoive 


182 


esiklla's  husband. 


«< 


*( 


to  lo^  spirits,  and  melancholy  generally,  than  short  com* 
mons.  Is  my  room  ready?  I'll  run  up  and  change  my 
dress;  and  do  you  find  an  appetite,  meantime,  Mrs.  Bar- 
tram,  because  eating  alone  I  donH  admire/' 

*'  Your  room  is  always  ready,"  Estellasaid.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  impulse,  she  clasped  both  her  hands  around  his 
arm,  and  looked  up  in  her  demi-god's  face,  with  shining, 
wonderful  eyes.  "  Oh,  Alwyn,  1  am  so  glad — so  glad — so 
glad  you  have  come!*' 

'  My  dear  little  Essie,  was  it  so  lonely  here?" 
Oh,  so  lonely — so  long!    And  1  may  go  with  you, 
Alwyn — really,  really  go?   and  you  will  never  leave  me 
again?" 

*'  Never  again,  you  foolish,  fond  little  wife — never  again ! 
If  I  had  known  you  would  have  missed  me  so  much,  I 
would  have  taken  you  with  me  when  1  weri.  1  thought 
you  would  have  been  quite  contented  with  l^orah,  and  your 
piano,  and  your  books.'' 

She  looked  at  him  wistf  uly,  then  turned  away.  He  could 
not  understand  her,  and  she  had  no  words  to  say  what 
was  in  hor  full  heart  that  throbbed  for  him  under  that 
black  bodice. 

'*  I  will  be  down  in  half  an  hour.  Tell  Norah  I  am 
particularly  sharp  set,  and  not  to  allow  the  kitchen  to  grow 
verdant  under  her  airy  treau.^' 

He  kissed  her  and  left  the  room.  And  when  he  left  her, 
Estella  stood,  with  a  face  more  luminous  than  a  sunlit 
summer  sky.  Her  idol  was  back — hers  forever — talking  to 
her,  and  caressing  her,  almost  as  if  he  loved  her. 

'*  Oh,  :i?y  darling!"  she  whispered,  thrilling  all  over 
with  ecstasy  J  **  I  am  the  happiept  creature  on  earth  to- 
night!" 

"  Does  that  young  man  want  anything  to  eat.  Miss 
Essie?"  demanded  a  gruff  voice.  "  Because  if  he  does, 
it'a  time  1  had  my  orders." 

It  was  Norah,  standing  in  the  door-way,  and  gazing 
with  cynical  contempt  at  the  girl's  radiant  countenance. 

Mrs,  Bartram  came  down  to  earth  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

"Is  it  you,  Norah?  Oh,  yes!  1  was  just  going  to  tell 
you.  Mr.  Bartram  has  not  dined,  and  is  particularly  hun- 
gry after  his  journey ;  so,  Norah  dear,  get  him  something 
nice.     He  will  be  down  in  half  an  hour. " 

**  Ah,"  said  Norah,  with  a  sort  of  groan,  **  I  dare  say  h« 


estella's  husband. 


183 


.yb« 


will.  Men  can  forget  everything  on  the  earth — their  wives 
among  the  rest— but  catch  one  of  'em  forgetting  his 
victuals!  He  must  put  up  with  broiled  beefsteak  anil  cold 
apple-tart,  Miss  Essie;  and  if  he  don't  lilie  that,  why  thure's 
the  restaurant  round  the  corner.     Let  him  go  there." 

**  Oh,  Norah,"  reproachfully,  "send  him  there?  No, 
no!  You  broil  the  steak  and  fry  the  potatoes  and  I  will 
set  the  table,  and  get  out  the  silver  and  glass,  and  mar- 
malade, and  preserved  peaches.  He  likes  nice  things,  you 
know;  andoh,  Norah!  Norah!"  flinging  her  arms  impetu- 
ously around  her  neck,  '*  1  am  so  happy — so  happy,  now 
that  he  has  come!" 

*'  Greater  fool  you,  then!  I  never  felt  more  like  slam- 
ming the  door  in  any  one's  face  than  1  did  in  his,  this  very 
evening.     It's  no  wonder  men  are  what  they  are;   you 

firls  spoil  them,  and  get  your  hearts  broke  for  your  pains, 
wish  I  had  my  way ;  I'd  soon  take  the  conceit  out  of  'em. 
There!  that's  hugging  enough;  go  and  hug  Mr.  Alwyn 
Bartram,  and  I'll  cook  the  meat  and  potatoes. " 

Norah  flounced  away  in  a  pet,  and  happy  Estella  ran  to 
the  dining-room  to  light  the  gas,  and  spread  the  cloth, 
and  get  out  the  silver,  and  glass  and  china,  for  her  lord 
and  king.  And  when  that  was  done  she  flew  up  to  her 
chamber,  to  brush  out  the  bright  ringlets,  and  don  her  best 
dress  and  jot  ornaments. 

"  If  I  only  were  pretty,"  she  thought,  gazing  with  wist- 
ful eyes  at  her  thin,  wan  face,  '*  I  think  he  would  learn  to 
love  me  now  !  If  I  only  looked  like  that  lovely  lady  whose 
picture  he  showed  me  once,  whom  he  loved  then!  Where 
IS  she,  1  wonder — dead  or  false?  Could  any  one  in  the  world 
be  false  to  him?" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartram  dined  sociably  Ute-a-tdte  for  the 
first  time,  and  Mr.  Bartram  was  dangerously,  fatally  kind. 
He  was  not  the  least  in  the  world  in  love  with  his  pale  girl- 
wife;  but  he  felt  tenderly,  protectiugly  toward  her,  as  he 
might  toward  some  poor,  little,  wounded  bird,  that  had 
flown  to  his  breast  for  shelter. 

He  was  very  kind,  very  communicative.  He  told  her 
all  his  plans  for  the  future — how  hard  he  was  to  work,  how 
famous  be  was  to  grow,  what  pleasure  he  would  feel  in  ex- 
hibiting to  her  all  the  undreamed  of  wonders  of  life  in  gay 
New  York.  He  told  her  of  their  future  home,  and  of  her 
housekeeper  and  companion,  Mrs.  Hamilton. 


184 


estella's  husband. 


IZ    -i' 


"  For  she  will  be  more  a  companion  to  you,  Essie,  than 
an  ordinary  housekeeper,"  he  said;  **  and  of  course  she  is 
to  be  treated  as  one  of  the  family.  They  moved  in  the 
best  society  once — tlie  Hamiltons — and  Mrs.  H 's  man- 
ners are  perfect.  Any  little  things  connected  with  etiquette, 
Essie,  which  you  do  not  know,"  Mr.  I^artram  added,  with 
some  hesitation,  '*  she  will  teach  you;  and,  of  course,  as 
you  have  never  been  in  society,  there  are  many  things  and 
observances  of  which  you  must  necessarily  be  ignorant. 
However,  your  mourning  will  prevent  your  going  out  much 
for  the  next  six  months,  at  least,  and  during  that  time  you 
will  continue  taking  lessons  under  the  most  capable  mas- 
ters. In  our  Darby  and  Joan  life  we  will  have  time  to  get 
acquainted,  and  when  Alwyn  Bartram  presents  his  friends 
to  his  wife,  he  wants  to  be  proud  as  well  as  fond  of  her. " 

Estella's  face  glowed!  Would  that  blissful  day  ever  come 
— the  day  on  which  he  would  be  proud  of  her? 

**"  OhI"  she  thought,  *'  how  hard  1  will  study,  how  much 
I  will  try  to  in^ prove,  how  patient  I  will  be  with  triplets 
and  cinquepaced  passages  and  nasty  French  verbs,  and  his- 
tory and  things,  to  become  worthy  of  him!" 

Mr.  Bartram  remained  but  little  over  a  week  in  Chelsea, 
and  then  the  house  was  left  in  charge  of  Norah.  It  was  to 
be  rented  as  it  stood,  and  when  a  tenant  was  found,  Norah 
was  to  vacate.  Estella's  husband  had  invited  her  to  ac- 
company them — not  very  cordially,  however — and  Norah 
had  flatly  declined. 

■■  As  I  told  Miss  Essie,  I  never  ran  after  any  man's 
heels  yet,  and  I  am  not  going  to  begin  now.  You  can  both 
go,  and  1  wish  you  well,  and  I  hope  you'll  make  the  poor 
child  happy,  I'm  sure;  but  I'll  stay  in  Chelsea,  Mr.  Bar- 
tram, and  take  care  of  myself. " 

She  assisted  her  young  mistress  to  pack,  with  a  stony 
fr.ce  that  told  little  whether  or  no  she  were  sorry  for  their 
speedy  parting;  but,  at  the  last,  she  took  her  in  her  strong 
arms  with  a  powerful  '^V.p. 

"  You're  going  away  with  your  husband,  child,  and  one 
hair  of  his  head  is  dearer  to  you  than  poor  Norah,  body 
and  soul.  You're  going  to  your  new  home,  and  your  new 
life,  and  your  fine  new  friends,  and  you  will  forget  me,  very 
likely;  but,  if  the  day  ever  comes  " — she  paused,  and  her 
hard,  gray  eyes  looked  ominously  prophetic — "  if  the  day 
ever  comes,  Essie,  when  the  new  love,  and  the  new  life,  aup 


estella's  husband. 


185 


fy 


)Oth 

)oor 
Jar- 
tony 
Iheir 
jong 

lone 
[ody 
lew 
rery 
J  her 
[day 


fine  friends  fail,  then  come  back  to  Chelsea— come  back 
to  Norah,  who  will  love  you  and  pray  for  you  always,  and 
give  you  a  warm  welcome  and  the  shelter  of  her  roof  how- 
ever humble  it  may  bo." 

Estella  looked  up  reproachfull  through  her  tears. 

*'  That  day  will  never  come,  Norah.  Have  I  not  my 
husband?  That  day  will  never  come,  but  I  will  not  forget 
you.  1  will  write  to  you  often,  and  come  to  see  you  next 
summer — may  I?  And  you  will  answer  my  letters,  will 
you  not?" 

*'  1  will  answer  all  you  will  ever  write.  Now  run,  my 
dear;  your  husband  looks  impatient  to  start.  Good-bye, 
and  God  forever  bless  you!" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartram  departed,  and  the  journey  to 
New  York  was  delightful.  All  that  the  most  devoted  hus- 
band could  be,  Alwyn  IJartram  was,  and  shy  little  Essie 
hung  upon  his  arm,  and  dared  look  up  in  his  handsome 
face  with  adoring  brown  eyes^  and  chat  with  him  almost  as 
though  she  were  his  equal. 

Bow  ditlerent  it  was  from  that  other  terrible  journey  to 
Chelsea,  when  she  had  run  away  from  Fisher's  Folly  and 
Royaten  Darrell!  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  it,  and 
the  impulse  came  strongly  over  her  to  tell  him  all  then.  If 
she  only  had!  But  she  looked  up  in  his  face  and  saw  that 
tell-tale  countenance  growing  somber  under  the  sudden 
recollection  of  Leonie,  and  her  faltering  courage  failed. 

*'  Not  now,"  she  thought;  "  he  might  be  angry  that  I 
did  not  tell  him  sooner;  and  I  think  one  angry  look  from 
him  would  kill  me.  By  and  by,  some  evening  in  the  twi- 
light, I  will  sit  at  his  feet  and  tell  him  the  whole  story  of 
the  cruel,  bitter  past.  And  he  viay  be  pleased  when  he 
hears  1  am  the  daughter  of  a  French  nobleman,  and  not 
the  nameless,  fatherless  girl  he  thinks  me." 

The  lately-wedded  pair  reached  New  York  early  in  the 
chill  March  morning,  and  drove  through  the  windy  streets 
in  a  hackney  carriage. 

It  seemed  a  very  long  drive  to  Estella,  and  New  York 
looked  particularly  dingy  and  dismal  in  the  leaden  morn- 
ing light.  The  up-town  streets  seemed  as  forlorn  and  de- 
serted as  even  Chelsea,  and  the  rows  of  brown-stone  houses 
all  as  much  alike  as  peas  in  a  pod,  bewildered  her  unaccus- 
tomed eyes. 

' '  How  can  people  tell  their  own  when  they  come  to  it?" 


'fm^\ 


IS^^: 


186 


estella's  husband. 


she  wondered.     '*  This  city  may  be  a  rery  gay  and  b/iUiant 
place:  but  if  so,  it  doesn't  do  itself  justice  now.'* 

The  hack  stopped  before  one  of  the  browii-stono  man- 
sions, and  Mr.  Bartraui  helped  her  out,  and  rang  a  peal 
that  speedily  brought  a  sleepy  housemaid  to  the  door. 

At  the  same  instant,  a  tall  and  stout,  and  stately  h'lly, 
**  fair,  fat,  and  lifty,'*  at  least,  opened  the  dravvi»ig-room 
door,  and  came  forward  to  welcome  the  master  of  tho 
house.  She  had  resolute  black  eyes  and  a  double  chin, 
and  a  magnificent  manner  that  made  poor  little  Essie,  at 
first  sight,  tremble  in  her  gaiters. 

**  1  am  happy  to  welcome  you  home,  Mr.  Bartram," 
said  this  gorgeous  dame,  extending  o:;e  fat,  yinged  hand — 
"  all  the  happier  because  you  arrive  sooner  than  I  dared 
expect.     And — Mrs.  Bartram,  1  presume?'' 

*  Yes— my  wife.     Estella,  my  dear,  our  friend,  Mrs. 
Hamilton." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  courtesied,  gave  the  ringed,  fat  hand  to 
Estella,  with  a  gracious  smile,  pouring  a  tiood  of  welcome 
and  congratulation  into  her  bewildered  ears. 

**  How  tired  you  must  be,  and  how  cold,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Bartram!  Ah!  I  know  what  weary  work  traveling  is. 
But  you  will  find  your  apartments  in  order  and  your  maid 
awaiting  you,  and  breakfast —  But  what  time  do  you  desire 
breakfast,  Mr.  Bartram?" 

"  Immediately — as  soon  as  it  can  be  got  ready.  I'll  an- 
swer for  traveling  being  hungry  business  whatever  else  it 
may  be.  Estella,  my  dear,  this  way.  Let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  conducting  Mrs.  Bartram  to  her  rooms." 

He  gave  her  his  arm;  she  looked  tired  and  pale,  and  a 
little  frightened. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  gazed  after  her,  with  the  fat  hands  folded. 

"Such  a  little  thing!"  she  thought — '^such  a  little, 
childish  thing!  Pale,  hollow-eyed,  sunken-cheeked,  un- 
formed! And  after  Leonie  De  Montreuil!  No  n[ianner — • 
frightened  of  me !  Not  a  word  to  say  for  herself.  And 
that  is  Alwyn  Bartram 's  wife!  Welf,  /  will  be  mistress 
here,  not  she;  that's  one  comfort." 

The  stately  widow  went  down  to  the  basement  to  give  the 
necessary  orders  for  breakfast,  and  Mr.  Bartram  led 
Estella  up  a  grand,  sweeping  stairway,  rich  in  gilding  and 
painting,  and  statuary,  along  an  echoing  corridor,  and  into 
a  suite  of  rooms  of  suih  AL-abian  Nights-like  gorgeousness. 


estella's  husband. 


187 


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that  she  paused  on  the  firsts  threshold  witli  a  faiut  cry  of 
amaze  and  delight.  They  opened  one  into  the  other^ 
boudoir,  droasing-room,  bedroom — in  one  ahining  vista  of 
color  and  splendid  upholstery. 

*'  Oh,  Alwynl''  she  cried. 

And  tliere  words  failed,  and  she  stood  speechless,  gazing 
with  eyes  like  midnight  moons. 

Alwyn  laughed;  but  he  also  pressed  her  arm  in  warning. 

**  Not  so  loud,  my  dear,"  ho  said;  "  your  maid  will  hear 
you.  Here  she  comes.  I  will  leave  you  in  her  charge, 
xour  trunlcs  will  be  up  directly.  This  is  your  attendant, 
my  dear.     Louiso,  I  believe  the  name  is?" 

A  tall,  stylish-looking  damsel,  in  a  pretty  cambric  wrap- 
per and  coquettish  white  apron,  bowed  low  in  assent. 

It  was  quite  as  much  as  nervous  Estella  could  do  to  re- 
turn it. 

**  You  will  assist  your  mistress  to  dress  for  breakfast, 
Louise.  Our  time  is  nine,  Estella;  the  bell  will  ring  in 
half  an  hour.  And  you  really  like  your  rooms?  1  am 
glad  of  that.  They  are  pretty,  and  I  selected  everything 
myself." 

He  drew  forward  a  seat,  placed  her  in  it,  kissed  the  broad, 
girlish  forehead  tenderly,  and  left  the  apartment. 

And  Estella  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  was  a  captive 
in  the  hands  of  her  maid.  She  did  not  venture  to  speak; 
she  was  trembling  from  heard  to  foot,  partly  with  nervous- 
ness, partly  at  the  strangeness  of  it  all. 

But  Louise  was  past-mistress  of  her  profession,  and  need- 
ed few  instructions.  She  swiftly  removed  the  traveling 
wraps  and  heavy  boots,  and  threw  open  one  of  the  large 
trunks. 

"  What  will  you  please  to  wear,  madame?" 

She  spoke  respectfully,  but  there  was  a  gleam  of  con- 
tempt in  her  eye.  Like  Mrs.  Hamilton,  she  saw  through 
her  new  mistress  at  once. 

**  I  shall  have  an  easy  time,*'  she  said,  inwardly.  **  She 
don't  know  anything.  If  that  old  cat,  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
minds  her  own  business,  I  can  about  do  as  1  like.  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  had  a  maid  before. " 

Estella  had  little  choice  to  make — all  her  dresses  were 
black.  She  chose  one,  and  Louise  arranged  it  and  her 
hair,  and  the  swift  toilet  was  made  before  the  breakfast- 
''ell  rung.     At  its  first  chime  Alwyn  Bartram  reappeared* 


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188 


estella's  husband. 


"  Dressed,  Essie?  Then  come — come  down.  I  wonder 
if  you  are  half  as  hungry  as  I  am?  But  of  course  you 
are  not — you  ladies  never  are.  How  do  you  like  your 
maid?" 

**0h,  Alwyn!"  Mrs.  Eartram  said,  piteously,  looking 
up  in  his  facie,  **  must  I  have  a  maid?  I  don't  know 
wnat  to  do  (vith  her,  or  what  to  say  to  her,  and  1  had  much 
rather  dress  myself.     Must  I  keep  her?*' 

**  Nonsense,  Essie!  Of  course  you  must.  What  to  say 
to  her,  indeed!  Give  her  your  orders,  of  course,  and  see 
that  she  executes  them.  And  for  pity's  sake,  child,  don't 
look  so  frightened  of  Mrs.  Hamilton.  She  won't  eat  you, 
although  you  looked  so  exactly  like  Little  Red  Hiding 
Hood  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  AVolf  when  I  introduced 
you.  Eemember,  you  are  mistress  here,  not  she,  and  assert 
yourself  accordingly." 

Assert  herself  I  She  shrunk  like  a  sensitive  plant  at  his 
words,  and  the  pretty  lips  trembled  like  a  child's  about  to 
cry.  The  brown  eyes  did  fill,  but  she  forced  those  puerile 
drops  back  to  their  source. 

The  next  moment  they  were  in  the  breakfast-parlor, 
where  Mrs.  Hamilton  stood  like  an  elderly  priestess  presid- 
ing over  steaming  urns  of  coffee  and  tea. 

It  was  a  silent  meal  as  far  as  one  of  the  party  was  con- 
cerned— Mr.  Bartram's  wife.  Mrs.  Hamilton's  smooth 
flow  of  small-talk  rarely  died  away,  and  she  talked  well — 
that  kind  of  small  coin  which  passes  muster  in  society.  She 
retailed  all  the  gossip,  all  the  news,  and  scandal  and  bon- 
mots  of  the  past  week  or  two  with  an  easy  glibness  that 
was  perfection  in  its  way. 

**  And  Clara  Leesom's  engagement  has  been  made  known 
at  last.  I  always  thought  Arthur  Manners  paid  her  more 
marked  attention  than  gentlemen  like  him  pay,  unless  they 
seriously  incline  to  matrimony.  And  speaking  of  the  Man- 
ners family,  Mrs.  George  Manners  gave  the  most  brilliant 
ball  of  the  season,  last  week,  and  as  usual  Mrs.  Eutherford 
was  the  '  bright  particular  star '  of  the  occasion.  They  say 
young  Lord  Everleigh,  who  is  making  the  tour  of  this 
continent,  and  was  present,  completely  lost  his  head,  and 
fell  madly  in  love  with  her.  He  is  still  in  New  York,  and 
haunts  the  Rutherford  mansion  like  a  ghost  Ah,  dear, 
what  a  terrible  thing  a  married  flirt  is,  to  be  sure!  is  it  not, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Bar  tram?" 


estblla's  husband. 


189 


Down 
more 
they 
Man- 
liant 
rford 
y  say 
this 
and 
and 
dear, 
;  not- 


Mrs.  Bartram,  raising  her  timid  eyes  to  reply  an  unin- 
telligible something,  caught  a  look  in  her  husband's  face 
that  transfixed  her. 

He  had  grown  very  pale;  his  eyes  shone  with  a  fierce  glit' 
ter,  and  his  mustached  lip  curled  in  scorn. 

*'  So  my  Lady  Leonie  Keeps  at  her  old  tricks,  does  shef 
And  the  poor  young  lordling  is  badly  hipped.  What  a 
lucky  man  old  Rutherford  is!'* 

Mrs.  Hamilton  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders. 

*'  My  dear  Mr.  Bartram,  what  else  could  have  been  ex- 
pected? Such  a  loveless,  ill-assorted  match!  I  am  a  very 
sentimental  old  woman,  Mrs.  Bartram,  and  still  maintain 
that  popular  fallacy  of  my  youth,  that  marriage  without 
love  is  little  better  than  no  marriage  at  all.  But  Mr. 
Rutherford  is  going  to  remove  his  pretty  wife  out  of  the 
reach  of  danger.  They  sail  for  Cuba  to-day.  He  has  es- 
tates there,  you  know,  and,  singular  to  relate,  she  goes  with 
him  willingly." 

Mr.  Bartram 's  lip  curled  with  still  more  intense  scorn. 

**  He  need  not  fear;  his  pretty  wife  is  a  great  deal  too 
worldly  wiso  ever  to  compromise  herself.  Admirers  she 
may  have  by  the  score — a  lover  never — while  her  husband 
lives.  1  have  the  honor  of  knowing  Leonie  De  MontreuiJ 
tolerably  well." 

Estelia  started.  "  De  Montreuil  '*  and  Leonie!"  she 
remembered  now  *  Leonie  "  was  the  name  on  the  portrait, 
and  it  all  flashed  upon  her.  The  beautiful  original  had 
been  false,  and  he  had  married  her  in  a  fit  of  spleen. 

But  "  De  Montreuil  " — could  she  be  that  ward  of  her 
father's,  recently  wedded,  of  whom  he  had  spoken  in  one 
of  his  letters  to  Helen  Mallory? 

She  sat  with  a  puzzled  face  throughout  breakfast,  long- 
ing to  ask  but  not  finding  courage  for  her  husband's  face 
had  clouded  blackly,  and  all  Mrs.  Hamilton's  airy  chit-chat 
could  not  lift  the  cloud  it  had  raised. 

And  so  Estelia  Bartram  was  at  home,  and  fairly  launched 
on  her  new  life.  And  Alwyn  Bartram  was  very  good  to 
his  poor  little,  timid  bride,  and  took  her  everywhere  that 
her  mourning  rendered  admissible,  and  devoted  himself  to 
her  with  the  assiduity  of  a  model  bridegroom.  That  way 
duty  Idy,  and  he  honestly  tried  to  do  his  duty  in  those  first 
months;  but  he  did  not  love  her,  and,  in  the  midst  of  ail 
her  happiness,  Estelia  would  often  see  that  somber  cloud 


100 


estella's  husband. 


darken  the  handsome  face  of  her  demi-^od,  the  black  eyes 
cload  and  gloom,  the  perfect  lips  compress  themselves  in 
inexpressible  pain,  and  know,  with  a  pang  as  keen  as 
death,  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  lost  love.  For  she 
knew  all  that  commonplace  story  of  woman's  falsity  by 
this  time — how  madly  he  had  adored,  how  cruelly  he  had 
been  jilted,  when  he  lost  his  uncle's  fortune — how,  hollow- 
eyed  and  despairing,  he  had  risen  up  before  her,  on  her 
wedding-day,  like  some  awful,  black-browed  ghost. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  had  entertained  her  with  the  interesting 
little  romaunt,  and  had  informed  her  that  Leonie  was 
indeed  the  niece  of  Count  De  Montreuil. 

'*  And  poorer  than  a  church-mouse,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bar- 
tram,"  the  elegant  widow  said,  cheerfully,  "  before  he 
picked  her  up.  They  are  always  the  worst  after  wealth, 
those  adopted  daughters — half-starved  from  childhood — on 
the  principle,  1  suppose,  of  a  burned  child  dreading  the 
tire.  But  really  those  old  stories  about  Mr.  Bartram's 
infatuation  must  have  been  without  foundation  after  all, 
else  he  had  never  fallen  in  love  and  married  you  so 
quickly." 

She  looked  at  EsteJla  with  her  stereotyped  "  society  " 
simper,  and  the  poor  little  wife  winced,  as  if  a  lance  had 
entered  her  flesh.  Slie  knew,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  knew, 
and  all  those  magnificent  ladies,  old  friends  of  her  husband, 
who  called  upon  her  in  superb  toilets,  knew  why  he  had 
married  her. 

**  And  when  is  Mrs.  Rutherford  expected  back?"  she 
asked,  in  a  subdued  tone. 

**  Some  time  next  summer,  I  believe — from  Cuba — but 
she  will  hardly  reach  Kew  York  before  October.  Quite 
time  enough,  dear  Mrs.  Bartram,"  with  an  unpleasant 
laugh,  "  for  Mr.  Bar  tram  to  totally  forget  her,  even  if  he 
has  not  done  so  already.  Fidelity  to  the  absent  is  not  in 
the  nature  of  man — at  least  of  any  man  I  ever  knew;  and 
yet — he  was  passionately  devoted  to  her." 

Mrs.  Bartram  asked  no  more  questions,  but  from  that 
hour  an  unutterable  dread  of  Leonie  Rutherford's  return 
took  possession  of  her. 

Oh,  if  she  would  never  come  back — or  if  they  could  go 
away — if  anything  would  happen  to  prevent  her  husband 
and  this  fatal  Circe  from  meeting  again!  For  he  luas  grow- 
ing fond  of  her  in  this  daily  companionship;,  and  the  bright^ 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


191 


»» 


"  she 

—but 
Quite 
asant 
if  he 
Qot  in 
and 


lid  go 
sband 
;row- 
right. 


Bess  had  come  back  to  her  cheeks  and  the  golden  glitter  to 
her  eyes,  and  she  was  improved  so  much  every  way,  in 
look  and  manners,  that  he  no  louger  shrunk  sensitively 
when  he  presented  her  to  his  critical  friends. 

*'For  you  are  prettier  than  half  of  them,  Essie,"  he 
said,  **  powdered  and  painted  puppets,  and  twice  as  grace- 
ful. You  look  like  a  field-daisy  in  the  center  of  a  bouquet 
of  flaunting  sunflowers.  Only,  my  pet,  don't  wear  that 
scared  face  in  their  august  presence,  and  try  to  find  your 
tongue  sometimes — you  can  talk  better  than  they  can,  if  it 
comes  to  that — and  donU  look  up  at  them  with  such 
great  piteous  brown  eyes.  They  say  as  plainly  as  eyes  can 
say,  '  Magnificent  lady,  I  am  a  poor  little  frightened 
country-girl — take  pity  en  me,  and  do  not  snub  me!'  1 
don't  like  it,  Essie,  and  it  makes  them  laugh." 

The  immortal  rule  of  the  Caudle  Lectures  was  reversed, 
you  see,  in  the  case  of  this  pair — Mr.  Caudle  delivered  the 
lectures,  and  Mrs.  Caudle  smothered  wistful  little  sighs, 
and  did  her  best — but  her  best  was  generally  a  failure. 

She  could  not  get  used  to  stately  Mrs.  Hamilton — to 
pert,  saucy  Louise — to  those  dashing  New  York  damsela 
who  chatted  like  magpies  around  her,  and  transfixed  her 
with  what  an  English  writer  calls  **  an  American  girl's 
broad  stare. "  She  could  not  get  used  to  society — to  stifiE 
dinner-parties,  to  formal  calls,  to  incessant  dressing,  and 
driving,  and  shopping,  and  receiving  visitors,  and  presid- 
ing at  her  husband's  dinner-table;  and  she  made  piteous 
fiascos,  and  excoriated  his  sensitive  pride  every  day  of  his 
life. 

And  the  months  went— March,  April,  May,  June.  The 
city  was  growing  intolerably  hot  and  thinning  fast.  Mr. 
Bartram,  who  was  working  hard  this  spring  and  summer — 
really  hard,  and  whose  Undine  "  had  been  a  success — 
resolved  to  eschew  watering-places,  and  be  off  among  the 
mountains. 

"  '  My  heart  is  in  the  Highlands,'  Mrs.  Hamilton,"  he 
said,  gayly;  "  I  have  had  a  surfeit  of  Newport  and  Cape 
May,  and  the  rest  of  them.  And  Essie  wouldn't  like  it, 
I  know — she  looks  like  a  wilted  lily  already.  I'll  take  her 
up  the  Hudson,  and  feed  her  on  sweet  milk,  and  new  but- 
ter, and  home-made  bread,  and  have  her  out  every  morn- 
ing at  peep  of  day,  and  keep  her  on  the  steady  tramp  till 
dewy  eve.     And  I  will  paint  mountain  storms,  and  high- 


!ii!^ 


.m^v 


193 


estella's  nrsT^AXD. 


II 


land  scenery,  and  immortalize  myself,  and  we  will  come 
back  in  October  browner  than  gypsies,  fatter  than  Bridget, 
the  cook,  and  happier  than  kings  and  queens." 

Mr.  Bartram  kept  his  word.  He  left  New  York  and  his 
gorgeous  housekeeper,  and  the  flippant  fernine-de-cliambre, 
and  all  Estella's  pet  horrors,  behind,  and  took  her  with 
him  up  among  the  hills.  He  carried  out  his  programme 
to  the  letter;  he  painted  assiduously,  and  she  was  ever  at 
his  side,  scampering  over  the  breezy  hills,  eMailing  on  the 
lakes,  bright  and  glad  as  the  golden  summer  days  them- 
selves. Por  once  she  was  really  and  truly  happy  without 
alloy — her  idol  was  all  her  own  at  last,  and — oh,  blissful 
thought — really  growing  to  love  her!  Through  all  the 
darkness  of  the  after  time,  that  radiant  summer  among  the 
Highlands  of  the  Hudson  stood  out  brilliant  and  cloudless, 
the  happiest  time  of  her  life. 

But  October  came,  v^nd  the  gypsy  life  must  end;  they 
must  go  back  to  the  weary  city  to  the  old  tread-mill  life 
— to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  to  Louise,  to  the  dressing  and  dining, 
and  the  party-going  and  giving.  Mrs.  Bartram's  heart 
sunk  within  her  at  the  dismal  prospect. 

*'  And  she  will  be  there,''  she  thought,  in  terror  and  de- 
spair, remembering  the  fatal  Leonie;  '^  and  he  will  meet 
her,  and,  oh,  what  will  become  of  me?  If  this  life  could 
only  go  on  forever!  or  if  that  dreadful  Mrs.  Butherford 
would  never  come  back!" 

She  kept  her  fears  to  herself, 
inexpressibly,  this  morbid  dread 
this  chronic  shyness  and  timidity, 
like  the  dashing  young  ladies  he  knew,  who  feared  nothing 
in  heaven  or  earth,  and  yet  be  her  own  wild  daisy-sefl 
still.  ^ 

Mrs.  Hamilton,  unchanged,  except  by  the  addition  ef 
another  double  chin,  welcomed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartram 
back  with  gracious  dignity  upon  their  return  early  in 
November.  And  Louise  took  possession  of  her  wretched 
little  slave  once  more,  and  made  her  life  a  misery  to  her; 
and  callers  came,  and  Estella  was  nowhere,  as  usual.  In- 
vitations poured  from  all  quarters,  and  Alwyn  Bartram's 
wife  was  to  make  her  debut  in  general  society  at  last. 

The  terrible  night  came — the  night  of  her  first  grand 
bnll.  All  in  white,  like  the  heroine  of  a  novel — in  dead 
white  silk,  that  swept  behind  her  in  a  train  of  richness,  all 


It  annoyed  Mr.  Bartram 

his  wife  had  of  society. 

He  wanted  her  to  be 


estella's  husband. 


19» 


I  come 
ridget, 

lud  his 
ambre, 
3r  with 
ramme 
ever  at 
OQ  the 
them- 
vithout 
blissful 
all  the 
ong  the 
)udle8S, 

d;  they 
iiill  life 
dining, 
s  heart 

and  de- 
ill  meet 
:e  could 
herford 

$artram 
society, 
to  be 
othing 
isy-seS 

itJon  ef 
^artram 
larly  in 
Iretched 
Ito  her; 
U.  In- 
rtram's 

3t. 

grand 
tn  dead 
less,  all 


filmy  with  lace  and  illusion,  all  looped  up  with  lilies  and 
forget-me-nots,  and  crowned  with  lily  leaves  and  lily  buds, 
Mrs.  Alwyn  Bartram  stood  before  her  mirror,  looking  at 
herself  with  wild,  wide  eyes,  and  wondering  if  **  I  be  1.'* 

The  snowy  robe  was  lower  of  neck  and  shorter  of  sleeve 
than  anything  she  had  ever  worn  before,  tind  she  trembled 
as  she  gazed,  and  stood  as  white  as  the  lilies  in  her  hair. 
She  need  not;  she  looked  lovely,  almost  lovely  enough  to 
bear  comparison  with  the  peerless  Leonie  herself.  And  so 
her  husband's  admiring  eyes  said,  as  he  drew  her  to  him 
and  kissed  her  fondly. 

**  My  darling!"  he  exclaimed,  **  how  sweet,  how  puko, 
how  fresh  you  look!  You  are  like  your  own  lilies — you 
are  lovely  to-night!" 

And  then  he  led  her  away,  down  to  the  carriage,  and  they 
rrere  ofiE  to  the  brilliant  mansion  up  the  avenue. 

Oh,  happy  Eatella!  That  night  shone  out  from  all  other 
nights  of  her  life — the  last  of  her  wifely  peacie  and  bliss. 

They  were  unusually  late,  and  the  gorgeous  rooms  were 
filled.  And  amid  all  the  belles  of  the  night,  dazzling  in 
the  dark  splendor  of  her  insolent  beauty,  the  first  face 
Alwyn  Bartram  saw  upon  entering  was  the  fatal  face  of 
Leonie! 

He  stood  still,  thrilling  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  not 
expected  her;  he  did  not  even  know  she  was  in  New  York, 
and  there  she  stood  before  him,  resplendent  in  roses  and 
diamonds,  her  glorious  eyes  outflashing  her  gems,  her 
ripe  red  lips  curved  in  ceaseless  smiles.  More  beautiful 
ihan  he  had  ever  seen  her  she  stood  before  him — a  fatal 
Circe  to  madden  men. 

She  saw  him  instantly,  and  smiled  and  bowed.  A 
moment  later  and  she  was  before  him,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"  At  last,  Mr.  Bartram,  after  an  eternity  of  separation 
we  meet  again.  But  people  always  do  meet  again  in  Kew 
York.  And  how  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  I 
Life  among  the  mountains  agrees  with  you." 

He  bent  above  the  little  dark  hand,  very  pale,  and  with 
a  strange  glitter  in  his  eyes.  Ah,  the  old  love  was  alive 
yet! 

**  1  can  return  the  compliment,  V^s.  Rutherford — you 
are  looking  better  than  I  ever  saw  yoti.  i  need  not  ask  if 
you  have  enjoyed  your  summer  tour;  -'our  face  speaks  for 


iiU^' 


vJ  J*  I 


194 


estella's  husband. 


^ou.     Allow  me  to  make  you  acauaiuted  with  my  wife — 
Vlrs.  Rutherford,  Mrs.  Bartram. 

And  so  they  had  mot,  the  old  lovers,  and  so  the  two 
wives  stood  lace  to  face  at  last.  ]31ack  eyes  and  brown  eyes 
flashed  together,  in  one  steady  glance.  The  rivals  took 
eaoh  other's  measure  in  that  first  second  of  time.  Then, 
two  tinv  hands — one  pearl  white,  the  other  dusk  and  blaz- 
ing v^ith  diamonds — clasped  in  hollow,  outward  friendship. 

**  I  have  so  longed  to  meet  you,  dear  Mrs.  Bartram," 
brilliant  Mrs.  liutheford  said,  with  her  most  bewitching 
smile.  *'  1  have  heard  of  you  so  often,  and  your  husband 
and  1  are  quite  old  friends.  And  how  do  you  like  New 
York?" 

From  that  moment  Estella  had  but  a  confused  memory 
K)f  the  events  of  that  wretched  night.  Mrs.  Kutherford  drew 
her  out  a  little,  found  what  she  was  made  of,  and  coolly 
dismissed  her.  Her  insolent  smile  was  at  its  brightest 
M  she  sailed  off  on  the  arm  of  her  serf,  Mr.  Waldron. 

**  Poor  little  thing!"  she  said,  with  a  shrug;  '*  so  pretty, 
80  helpless,  so  mute!  One  feels  for  her,  really!  And  that 
is  Alwyn  Bartram 's  wife!" 

**  She  is  the  sweetest  little  creature  1  ever  met!"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Waldron,  twirling  his  mustache;  **  and,  by 
Jove!  there's  only  one  other  as  lovely  in  the  room!  And 
you  pity  Alwyn  Bartram's  wife!  Magnanimous  of  yon,  I 
'nustsay." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Leonie  was  whirling  round  the  long 
ball-room  in  the  arms  of  Estella's  husband.  Mrs«  Bartram 
never  waltzed  at  her  husband's  expressed  desire;  but  the 
rule  did  not  apply  to  him.  He  waltzed  and  waltzed  again, 
always  with  Mrs.  Eutherford;,  and  his  wife  stood  a  little 
apart  and  looked  on.  Others  looked,  too.  There  was 
nothing  like  them  there — matchless  for  beauty  and  grace. 

**  Such  a  pity,"  a  young  man  said — **  pity  to  uncouple 
such  a  well-matched  span!  Handsome  as  angels,  both — 
fallen  angels,  you  know — and  madly  in  love  still.  One 
doesn't  mind  old  Rutherford — serves  him  right;  but,  egad! 
the  pretty  little  wife — one  feels  for  her.  And  she's  fond 
<i>f  the  beggar,  too." 

He  sauntered  away,  never  seeing  the  object  of  his  com- 
passion. And  E  Stella,  faint  and  sick,  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  never  forgot,  the  pang  of  intolerable  pain  and  jeal- 
Aosy  that  pierced  her  heart  then. 


V!\ 


estella's  hubeand. 


195 


The  ball  ended.  Mr.  Bartram  took  his  wife  home,  bui 
Mrs.  Bartram  shivered,  unheeded,  in  a  corner,  and  ho  sal 
lost  in  a  dangerous  dream. 

Not  half  a  dozen  words  were  exchanged  on  the  homeward 
way,  and  Estella  run  up  to  her  room  >*t  once,  with  a  full 
heart,  while  Mr.  Bartram,  wearied  out,  threw  himself  on 
a  sofa  in  the  library,  and,  dressed  as  he  was,  fell  fast  asleep. 

Some  hours  later,  when  his  wife  entered,  he  still  Hy 
there — sleeping — dreaming.  One  arm  plilowed  his  hand- 
some head,  a  smile  parted  the  chiseled  lips.  She  bent 
above  him  and  kissed  him  with  passionate  love.  The 
smile  died  away,  and  murmured  words  came. 

*'  Wait  for  me,  Leonie,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  my  darling — 
be  true!  be  true!" 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

TH  E    LOST    HEIR. 

Mr.  Bartram  slept  late  on  that  morning  after  the  ball, 
and  breakfasted  alone  in  his  dressing-room.  His  wife  had 
arisen  and  gone  out  for  a  walk.  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  busy 
in  the  domestic  apartment;  so  he  ha^^  ^is  chocolate  and  his 
waffles,  and  his  grapes,  and  his  thoughts  all  to  himself. 
He  threw  on  his  picturesque  black  velvet  painting  robe 
and  cap  after  breakfast,  and  went  up  to  his  atelier  to 
work,  but  his  **  Moon-rise  on  the  Lake  "  made  very  little 
progress  on  that  particular  day.  How  could  he  paint 
misty-blue  hills,  purple  mountain  tarns,  faint  young  sum 
mer  moons,  and  blue-black  midnight  skies,  with  the  darkly 
witching  face  of  that  fatal  sorceress,  Mrs.  William  Euther- 
ford,  flashing  between  him  and  the  canvas,  with  its  bril- 
liant, ceaseless  smile?  He  could  not  paint;  he  flung  away 
his  brushes  in  disgust,  and  sat  down,  moodily,  in  the  sun^ 
lit  window,  to  smoke  and  exorcise  his  beautiful  famil- 
iar. But  the  black,  starry  eyes,  long,  limpid,  and  velvety 
— the  cheeks  of  pomegranate  bloom — the  sweet-curved, 
rose-red  lips — pursued  him  until  he  almost  went  mado 
He  threw  his  cheroot  out  of  the  window  with  a  deep  oath, 
at  last,  and  taking  up  his  pencil,  began  drawing  that  haunt* 
jng  face.  TTiis  soothed  him.  Again  and  again  he  drew  it 
— now  in  profile,  now  sad,  now  gay.  but  over  and  ovej 
again. 

T4ie  wintery  November  afternoon  waned,  the  first  dress- 


\   'I 


I: 


106 


bstblla'8  husband. 


Hi 


ing-bell  rung,  and  still  he  sat  gazing  with  glowing  ejes  oi 
the  matchleiis  countenance.  His  wife's  soft  tap  at  tht 
door  was  unheard.  She  turned  the  hatidle  and  entered^ 
still  unheard;  she  crossed  the  room  iiglitly,  with  a  half 
smile  on  her  lips,  to  surprise  him  with  a  word  and  caress. 
She  bent  lightly  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  his  afternoon'a 
work.     An  instant  later  and  he  was  alone. 

The  loud  clang  of  the  dinner-bell  aroused  him.  He 
started  up,  and  for  the  first  time  his  folly  dawned  upon 
him  in  its  true  light.  With  a  second  passionate  impreca- 
tion, he  snatched  up  his  hand  full  of  drawings  and  fiung 
them  into  the  blazing  fire. 

**  Good  Heavens  I"  he  said,  **  what  a  fool,  what  a  be'* 
sotted  ass,  what  a  scoundrel  I  am!  That  woman  is  no^ 
worth  the  paper  on  which  I  have  drawn  her  fatal  faceu 
and  here  1  lose  my  whole  day  idiotically  over  her.  And  f 
a  married  man,  too!  I'll  tear  her  out  of  my  imbecil* 
heart  if  I  have  to  tear  it  out  by  the  roots.  ** 

He  ground  his  teeth  vindictively  as  he  ran  up  to  his  room. 
His  toilet  was  necessarily  of  the  briefest;  out  when  it  is 
only  a  man's  wife  and  housekeeper  who  await  him,  wha^ 
need  to  be  particular? 

*^  1  have  detained  you,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  as  he  en 
tered  the  dining-room;  "  but  up  in  my  studio  I  forgek 
Bublunary  things.     And  how  do  you  feel  after  your  firsfc 
ball,  Essie,  and  how  did  you  enjoy  yourself?" 

**  Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  answered 
for  her.  *'  She  looks  wretchedly  to-day.  Ah,  my  dear 
Mr.  Bartram,  I  fear  you  will  never  make  her  a  woman  of 
society!  One  night's  dissipation  wilts  the  roses  of  a  whole 
summer." 

**  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  ever  make  her  a  *  woman 
of  society!'  "  Mr.  Bartram  answered,  bitterly;  "you  and 
I  know  what  they  are,  Mrs.  Hamilton.  You  are  pale,  Essie 
— fagged  to  death,  I  should  say;  and  yet  you  danced  very 
little.^' 

Estella  murmured  something,  her  lips  quivering,  her 
eyes  filling;  but  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat,  and  choked  her 
voice.  And  ?ie  could  wonder  at  her  pale  cheeks  anc^ 
dimmed  eyes,  after  last  night — after  to-day. 

**  Everybody  was  there,  I  presume?"  inquired  Mr& 
Hamilton.      ''  I    have  been  asking    Mra.  Bartram,  ba* 


estella's  husband. 


197 


Mr& 


really  she  is  not  yery  comiuunioative.     Was  Mrs.  Buthei 
ford?" 

She  asked  the  Question  abruptly,  and  she  saw,  and  £8> 
tella  saw,  the  dark-red  ^ush  that  mounted  to  Mr.  Bar. 
tram's  swarth  brow. 

*'  Yes,*'  he  said,  curtly;  **  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  there." 

**  And  handsome  as  ever,  no  doubt?" 

**  Handsomer,  1  think.  The  Kutherford  diamonds, 
and  the  plethoric  purse  of  the  millionaire  agree  with  the 
little  fortune-huntress." 

**AndMr.  Kutherford?" 

*' Oh,  much  the  same  as  usual!"  impatiently;  **red- 
faced,  loud-voiced,  sulky  and  jealous.  Estellu,  you  eat 
nothing;  let  me  help  you  to  the  breast  of  this  partridge." 

*'i)o  you  go  out  to-might?"  Mrs.  Hamilton  ventured 
to  inquire,  after  a  pause.  *'  I  ask,  because  dear  Mrs.  Bar* 
tram  really  looks  unfit  for  anything  but  bed." 

'"  Then  she  shall  go  to  bed:  and  the  earlier  the  better. 
F'>r  me,  1  have  an  engagement. " 

He  felt  a  twinge  as  he  said  it.  Yes,  an  engagement  for 
a  Broadway  theater,  made  with  Mrs.  Rutherford,  to  wit- 
ness the  debut  of  a  celebrated  European  actress.  He  had 
promised  to  take  his  wife  to  the  performance,  but  her 
pallid  cheeks  and  heavy  eyes  came,  fortunately,  to  the 
rescue. 

Mr.  Bartram  made  a  most  elaborate  toilet,  and,  looking 
magnificently  handsome,  entered  the  crowded  theater,  and 
sauntered  round  to  Mrs.  Rutherford's  box.  The  enchant- 
ress, gorgeous  in  green  moire  and  sparklmg  emeralds,  sat 
with  her  friend,  Mrs.  Manners,  surrounded,  as  usual,  by 
a  circle  of  devoted  worshipers.  But  she  turned  from  them 
all  with  an  enchanting  smile,  and  held  out  her  sparkling 
hand  to  her  handsome  favorite. 

**  Vandal!   Goth!     Late,  and    R playing  *  Marie 

Stuart!'  You  deserve  the  bastinado!  Ah,  she  is  charm- 
ing! I  saw  her  in  Paris;  but  she  is  ever  a  sort  of  surprise. 
And  how  is  Mrs.  Bartram?" 

"  Not  very  well,"  Mrs.  Bartram's  husband  answered, 
rather  moodily;  ^*  fatigued,  and  unable  to  come  out.  She 
had  retired  before  I  left." 

'*  Ah!  our  terrible  city  life — our  late  hours — our  gas-light 
— our  dissipation!  We  hardened  creatures  stand  it  some- 
how, but  tne  fresh  little  country  beauties  " — with  a  shrug 


i '    » 


i  • 


.  -J^K^'^ 


198 


estrlla's  bumbakd. 


ftnd  a  smile  that  stung  him  to  the  quick — **  they  droo. 
like  broken  roses.     I  only  trust  she  will  be  able  to  attend 
my  reception  next  Thursday  night." 

Mr.  Bartram  bowed  coldly,  the  frown  on  his  brow  deepen- 
ing. Her  half-pitying,  half-contemptuous  tone  and 
amile — he  understood  both,  and  hardly  knew,  for  the  mo- 
ment, whether  the  anger  in  his  heart  was  for  her  or  for 
Estella. 

But  Mrs.  Rutherford   was  noL  going  to  let  him  grow 
sullen  and  silent;  she  had  come  to  charm,  and  churm  she 
would.     She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  looking  wondrously 
lovely,  and  the  almond  eyes  flashed  up  at  Tiim,  and  the 
radiant  smiles   shone    their  brightest,  and  the  glib  little 
tongue  chattei*ed  airily,  continually.     She  was  fascinating 
And  she  knew  it;   no  man  alive — short  of  a  St.  Stylites 
twenty  years  weather-beaten  on  his  pillar — could  have  re 
sisted  her.     Alwyn  Bartram  was  no  saint — very  far  from 
it;  he  succumbed  at  once.     The  siren  wove  her  fatal  spells 
— the  smiles,  the  glances,  the  lowly  murmured  words  he 
had  to  stoop  his  tall  head  very  low  to  catch — the  witching 
music,  the  poetry  of  the  play — all  netted  him  round.     Be- 
fore the  evening  ended,  Circe  had  her  slave  again;  Alwyu 
Bartram  forgot  his  wife — his  promise  to  the  dead — every- 
thing but  the  entrancing  coquette  before  him.      Her  eyea 
were  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  triumph,  when  he  led 
her  to  her   carriage.      He  loved  her  still,  and  she — oh 
wicked  little  sorceress! — she  loved  him,  too. 

**  And  you  will  not  fail  on  Thursday  night?"  Sho 
leaned  toward  him  out  of  her  furred  wraps,  with  a  lasl 
brilliant  smile.  ''  Kemember,  this  is  Tuesday.  I  don't 
want  you  tc  forget." 

**  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.     Good-night" 

He  went  home  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  ims  in  » 
dream— blinded,  dazzled,  besotted.  Estella  was  still  awake, 
pale  as  the  pillows;  but  he  thought  her  asleep,  and  would 
not  disturb  her.  He  lay  down  on  a  sofa  in  the  dressing- 
room,  and  fell  into  a  feverish  slumber;  and  as  she  haunt- 
ed his  waking  hours,  so  Leonie  also  haunted  his  dreams. 

Mrs.  Rutherford's  first  "  At  Home,"  after  her  summer's 
sojourn  was  brilliantly  attended.     She  was  resplendent  to 
night  in  crimson  velvet  and  rare  old  lace,  and  diamonc^ 
stars  ablaze  in  her  blue-black  hair.      She   looked   like  A 
glowing  flower  of  the  South,  as  she  was — a  little  flame  </ 


estella's  nrsiiANP. 


199 


Hre— iettinp;  everything  alight  as  she  movinl  through  her 
^^usband'a  gilded  saloons. 

The  sad  heart  of  Kstella  l/artram  sunk  within  her  as 
she  looked  at  that  dazzling  beauty — so  dark,  so  bright,  so 
insolently  peerless.  Her  own  bright  bloom  of  color  had 
fled;  she  was  as  white  as  the  roses  in  lur  huir;  slio  looked 
like  a  spirit  of  the  moonlight  in  her  misty  robes  of  illusion 
and  pale  ropes  of  pearls.  A  wan  little  shadow  beside  the 
llashmg  diamond  light  and  ruby-velvet  splendor  of  the 
millionaire's  wife.  She  had  not  wijhed  to  conic,  but  Mr. 
Martram  had  insisted — rather  angrily,  too.  lie  had  no  in- 
♦iBntion  people  should  say  ho  neglected  his  wife,  or  was 
Ashamed  of  her,  though  both  were  true.  Jlis  uonscienoe 
was  ill  at  ease,  and  he  was  unjust  and  cruel  in  the  ptruggle 
between  duty  and  passion,  wrong  and  right. 

The  hours  wore  wearily  on  to  Kstella;  head,  and  heart, 
and  eyes  ached  alike  with  the  noise,  and  the  heat,  and 
the  glitter.  She  did  not  dance;  she  could  not  (jilk;  she 
felt  sick,  and  spiritless,  and  utterly  worn  out. 

Young  men  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  left  her. 
What  couhl  Bartram  be  thinking  of  to  marry  that  insipid 
little  thing? 

She  stole  away,  long  past  midnight,  while  every  one 
else  was  at  supper,  to  the  long,  deserted  music-room,  half 
blinded  with  the  pain  in  her  throbbing  head. 

The  apartment  was  vast  and  empty;  a  bay-window  stood 
invitingly  open,  with  the  cool  night  wiiul  sweeping  in. 
The  balcony  outside  was  forsaken.  She  seated  herself  in 
the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  and  laid  her  hot  forehead 
against  the  cold  glass,  not  half  so  cold  as  the  dull  despair 
at  her  heart. 

**  If  I  could  only  die,"  she  thought,  wearily,  "  and  end 
it  all!    If  I  could  only  die  and  leave  him  free!" 

She  sat  there,  heedless  of  the  cold,  of  the  raw  November 
night  wind,  of  the  pale  moonlight,  of  being  missed,  in  a 
dull  stupor  of  sick  apathy.  Heart,  and  body,  and  soul 
she  felt  worn  out — tired,  sick,  utterly  hopeless  and  help- 
less. 

**  He  loves  her,  and  he  will  learn  to  hate  me  I"  The 
thought  surged  dully  through  her  throbbing  brain.  *'  If 
itt  were  not  a  sin  to  die  I  would  set  him  free  to-night  I*' 

A  step,  a  voice  aroused  her — a  step,  a  voice  that  would 
jhave  almost  aroused  her  from  her  death-sleep.     Two  peo- 


! 


1000 


estblla's  husband. 


pie  swept  by  her  on  the  balcony — her  husband,  with  Lecnle 
Hutheriord  upon  his  arm.  An  opera-cloak  draped  her  in  its 
soft  folds;  she  clung:  to  him,  her  face  uplifted,  her  eyes 
passionate  and  imploring  in  the  moonlight. 

*'  I  have  repented,''  she  was  crying.  "''1  do  repent. 
Oh,  Alwyn!  no  need  to  say  such  merciless,  cruel  things 
tome!    You  are  amply  avenged." 

**  Yes,"  Alwyn  Bar  tram  said,  slowly  and  bitterly.  "  1 
am  victor;  but  another  such  victory,  I  think,  would  cost 
me  my  kingdom.  You  have  only  wrecked  both  our  liveg 
^only  made/ow?*  lives  miserable — only  made  me  the  most 

§uilty  and  perjured  wretch  alive.  1  ought  to  hate  you.  1 
o  hate  you  at  times,  and  love  you  more  madly  than  ever 
Btill.  1  have  wooed  a  wife,  innocent  and  spotless  as  the 
angels,  who  loves  me  with  all  her  pure  heart,  and  whom  I 
vowed  by  my  best  friend's  death-bed  to  love  and  cherish. 
<^onsistent,  am  I  not — honorable,  manly,  worthy  any  wo- 
man's love?  We  were  made  for  each  other,  I  thinkj  Leo- 
nie.  We  deserve  each  other.  We  both  belong  to  the 
angels  of  light!'* 

He  laughed  a  hash,  strident  laugh,  and  his  dark  face 
looked  unutterably  haggard  and  bitter  in  the  moonlight. 

*'  1  was  mad,"  Leonie  said,  with  a  sob.  "  I  have  repent- 
ed. Oh,  forgive  me.  Alwyn!  You  don't  know  half  my 
misery!" 

**  Do  I  not?  And  yet,  perhaps  not,  with  old  Rutherford 
for  your  husband.  You  have  something  that  does  duty 
lor  a  heart  then,  Leonie,  under  your  red  v*ilvet  bodice!  And 
you  might  safely  have  waited  for  me,  and  not  starved  on 
bread  and  water  in  a  garret,  after  all.  The  year  of  proba- 
tion expires  next  week,  and  Eobert  Bartram  has  not  yet 
turned  up.  In  t^ix  days  more  I  claim  my  dead  uncle's 
fortune — that  fortune  which  would  have  made  you  my 
wife — do  you  hear,  Leonie?"  passionately — **  my  tvife  I  had 
I  inherited  it  a  year  since.     You  might  have  waited!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbing  impetuous- 
ly, her  tears  falling  like  rain.  She  did  repent;  she  did 
love  him;  how  fiercely  only  her  own  undisciplined  heart 
^new. 


4t    CJ 


bpare  me!"  she  cried.  "  Have  a  little  mercy,  Alwyn 
B&rtram!  When  1  think  of  what  we  are,  what  we  might 
be,  and  that  it  is  all  my  fault — mino — 1  feel  as  though  I 
were  going  mad." 


estblla's  husbakd. 


aot 


n 


He  drew  her  suddenly  to  him;  she  looked  up  in  his  face 
through  her  flowing  tears.  She  had  the  good-fortune,  this 
matchless  Leonie,  to  be  one  of  the  few  women  weepiug  does 
not  disfigure.  He  caught  her  and  kissed  her  like  a  man 
insane. 

**Mad!"  he  cried.  **  You  have  driven  me  mad  with 
your  fatal  beauty!  We  must  part,  Leonie  Rutherford,  or 
— 1  shall  be  a  greater  villain  than  ever  earth  held  before. 
Go!  leave  me,  and  let  us  never  meet  again!" 

**  Alwyn,"  she  said,  trembling,  fri^^htened,  yet  fascinat- 
ed— **  Alwyn,  listen  to  me!" 

But  he  stamped  his  foot  and  turned  resolutely  away. 

**  Go!"  ho  thundered,  *'  while  I  am  able  to  say  the 
word.  Estella  Mallory's  husband  and  William  Buther 
ford's  wife  must  never  meet  again." 

He  swung  round  as  he  spoke  and  left  her.  She  stood  »> 
moment,  then  flitted  after  him — off  the  balcony  and  ou^ 
of  sight. 

And  Estella!  She  sat  vjhere  she  had  sat  when  they  ap- 
peared— rigid,  moveless,  colorless.  She  had  never  stirrec* 
once;  she  could  not,  and  she  had  heard  every  word. 

Estella  rose  slowly  when  they  disappeared — cramped, 
numbed,  chilled  to  the  heart.  Dully,  she  recollected  thaV- 
she  mi^ht  be  missed,  might  be  searched  for,  might  b** 
found  there.     She  had  no  wish  for  that. 

She  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  in  her  blind  misery, 
back  to  the  ball-room.  There  the  first  person  she  en- 
countered was  her  husband. 

*'  1  have  been  looking  for  you,  Estella,"  he  said,  hur^ 
riedly.    **  The  carriage  is  here;  1  want  to  take  you  home. " 

He  never  noticed  her  marble  face,  her  dilated  eyes.  He 
was  totally  p/osorbed  in  his  own  fierce,  inward  struggle. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  and  still  in  dead  silence,  husband 
and  wife  were  on  their  way  home. 

Mrs.  Bartram  kept  her  chamber  all  the  next  day  with  a 
blinding  headache,  that  left  her  unable  to  move,  or  speak, 
Ci'  think. 

Mr.  Bartram  shut  himself  up  in  his  painting-room,  and 
smoked  savagely,  and  painted  fiercely  a  lurid  sunset  on 
the  sea.  But  as  the  twilight  deepened  and  fell,  he  flung 
away  brushes  and  cigars,  and  sought  out  his  wife. 

She  lay  upon  the  bed,  Ler  face  hidden,  still  as  death. 


"■^i\ 


M 


202 


estella's  husband. 


f  >•*. 


**  Are  you  asleep,  Estella?''  he  asked^  standing  besidv 
her. 

"No." 

Her  voice  sounded  smothered  and  far  off;  his^  hareJU 
with  inward  pain. 

"  Are  you  better?" 

**  Nc— yes — I  donH  know." 

He  hardly  heeded  her  answer,  he  was  wrapped  utterly  in 
his  own  fierce  struggle. 

**  1  am  going  to  take  you  away,  Estella — away  from  this 
accursed  city  "—he  set  his  teeth — **  a^ay  from  this  horri- 
ble life,  never,  perhaps,  to  return.  J  am  going  abroad — 
to  France,  Italy,  anywhere — and  that  immediately.  We 
will  sail  next  month. " 

She  never  spoke.  The  white  face  lay  upon  the  pillows: 
the  mournful  hrown  eyes  looked  out  into  the  twilight  ia 
speechless  despair. 

"  If  Robert  Bartram  does  not  turn  up  within  the  next 
five  days,"  her  husband  went  on,  "  my  late  uncle's  fort- 
une is  mine.  He  may  be  alive  and  well,  and  reappear  anv 
time  after  he  chooses,  but  it  will  then  be  too  late.  My 
uncle's  will  was  most  unjust,  most  ungenerous.  He  haii 
no  right  to  let  me  go  on  expecting  to  inherit  his  wealth, 
and  then  cut  me  oS.  because  I  could  not  take  up  his  grul# 
bing  stock-broking.  His  fortune  will  eventually  come  to  mt , 
in  spite  of  that  unjust  will,  and  I  am  heartily  glad  of  ii., 
Helen  Mallory's  money  belongs  to  you.  I  shall  never  touch 
another  penny  of  it;  it  has  gone  against  the  grain  to  use  it 
from  the  first.  1  shall  dispose  of  this  house  and  furniture 
our  servants  and  horses,  and  we  will  leave  New  York,  and 
be^in  our  new  life  together  far  away.  You  have  no  objec- 
tion, Estella?" 

"No.'' 

"  He  just  caught  the  faintly-breathed  word— no  more. 
He  turned  to  leave  the  roon.. 

"  Then  you  commence  yom*  preparation  to-morrow,  if 
you  are  able;  if  not,  authorize  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Louise. 
Try  to  sleep  and  be  able  to  risv^  to-morrow.  We  shall  be 
very  busy,  and  you  will  need  all  your  strength. " 

He  quitted  the  apartment,  and  went  out  into  the  starlit 
streets.  Involuntarily  his  steps  turned  in  the  direction  of 
the  Kutherford  mansion. 

The  carriage  stood  waiting  before  the  door;  of  course. 


KSTELLA  S    HUSBAXD. 


203 


LMVy 


ICrs.  Rutherford  was  going  out.     He  loitered  a  moment 
over  the  way,  in  the  deep  shadow,  and  had  his  reward. 

Leonie  Rutherford  came  forth,  in  resplendent  attire,  as 
usual,  entered,  and  was  wl  irled  uff.  He  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  exquisite  face  in  the  gas-light — then  it  was 
gone  to  light  up  some  festive  gathering;  and,  setting  his 
strong  white  teeth,  he  strode  on,  under  the  cold  November 
night. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bartram  began  their  preparations  for  im- 
mediate departure,  and  Mrs.  Rutherford  heard  the  news 
with  bitter  despair. 

He  could  break  his  bonds  then,  after  all,  and  leave  her, 
and  what  would  her  hollow,  brilliant  life  be  worth  when 
^e  was  gone? 

She  paced  up  and  down  her  luxurious  rooms  at  dead  of 
night  when  she  had  much  better  have  been  asleep,  her 
hands  clinched,  her  eyes  ablaze,  her  heart  torn  with  pas- 
sionate pain. 

**  Oh,  fool,  fool,  miserable  fool  that  I  have  been,"  she 
thought,  almost  madly,  "  to  give  him  and  his  love  for 
William  Rutherford's  gold  and  this  pitiful,  empty  life! 
And  now,  when  1  know  how  worthless  i  all  is,  and  how  I 
love  him,  it  is  too  late!  And  the  fortune  for  whose  loss  1 
resigned  him  will  be  his,  after  all,  and  hers  !  Oh,  bitter, 
bitter,  bitter  is  my  punishment,  indeed!" 

The  last  night  of  the  year  of  probation  had  come — very 
learly  the  last  night  of  Alwyn  Bartram 's  stav  in  New 
fork. 

There  was  a  dinner-party  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  to 
which  only  Mr.  Bartram's  special  and  select  friends  were 
invited ;  and  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  present. 

Since  that  uight  on  the  balcony,  the  siren  and  her  slave 
had  never  met.  The  siren  had  striven  hard  enough, 
heaven  knows,  but  the  slave  was  not  quite  dead  to  strength 
and  honor,  and  had  sternly  resisted.  They  bad  not  met, 
and  they  would  never  meet  again  if  he  could  help  it. 

They  were  all  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner — Mr. 
Bartram  the  merest  trifle  exhilarated  with  wine  and  tri- 
umph, sli':;htly  flashed,  quite  matchless  in  his  magnificent 
manliood;  Mrs.  Bartram,  pale  as  a  lily,  languid,  droop- 
ng,  silent,  after  her  recent  illness— a  piteous  contrast  to 
filer  superb  lord. 

There  was  music  and  laughttr,  and  brilliant  conversa- 


i 


mm 


I'if* 


904 


estella's  husband. 


tioD,  and  the  golden  hours  that  made  Alwyn  master  of  his 
dead  uncle's  thousands  v^ere  speeding  fast,  when  the  door- 
bell rung — a  peal  so  loud,  so  long,  so  authoritative,  that 
everybody  started. 

**  At  this  hour,'*  Alwyn  Bartram  said;  "almost  mid- 
night!   Who  can  it  be?" 

A  dead  hush  fell.  A  servant  flung  wide  the  door,  and, 
in  a  voice  that  rung  through  the  room,  announced: 

"  Mr.  Robert  Bertram!'* 

It  was  a  perfect  coup  de  theatre.  You  might  have  heard 
a  feather  drop,  as  a  tail,  fair-haired  young  man,  with  a 
handsome,  reckless  face^  bold,  roving  blue  eyes,  and  a 
splendid  length  and  strength  of  limb  strode  into  their 
midst. 

A  little,  quiet,  lawyer-like  person  followed;  but  no  one 
hoeded  him.  The  tall  young  man  made  straight  for  the 
giver  of  the  feast  with  the  easy  nonchalance  of  a  prince  of 
the  blood,  holding  out  his  ungloved  right  hand. 

"  Rather  late,  Alwyn,''  he  said,  **  out  better  late  than 
never.  The  year  expires  at  midnight,  and  it  is  half  past 
eleven  now.  Very  sorry  to  deprive  you  of  a  fortune,  dear 
boy,  but  you  see  1  am  alive,  and  likely  to  remain  so  for 
some  time  to  come.  You  know  me,  don't  you?  or  have 
all  these  years  of  absence  blotted  me  out  of  your  cousinly 
/egard?'* 

A  Iwyn  Bartram  stood,  pale  as  death,  gazing  full  at  the 
new  comer  with  large,  startled  eyes. 

**  I  know  you,"  he  said,  slowly.  **  Yes,  Rober  Bartram, 
1  know  you,  and  you  are  in  time." 

His  last  words  were  lost  in  a  sobbing  cry.  Estella  Bar- 
tram, standing  unnoticed  near,  had  fallen  fainting  head- 
long upon  the  floor,  without  word  or  cry. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


ESTELLA     S     SECRET. 


The  dinner-party  broke  up  in  the  most  admired  confu- 
sion— the  be^L  metropolitan  society  had  received  a  shock 
and  a  new  sensation,  and  harried  homeward  to  spread  the 
news. 

It  was  better  than  the  best  melo-drama  that  ever  was 
written.     The  lost  heir  turning  rp  at  rhe.  eleventh  hour — 


estella's  husband. 


206 


n  Lara  returning  to  his  anceBtral  halls  with  senBational 
effect — Alwyn  Bartram  uncrowned  and  unsceptred  wheu 
every  one  thought  him  sure  of  his  kingdom,  and  that 
pallid,  excitable  little  shadow,  Mrs.  Bartram,  (lro])ping  in 
a  dead  faint  at  everybody's  feet.  It  was  a  t^eene  unpre- 
cedented in  all  the  whole  experierce  of  all  those  languid 
diners-out. 

Mrs.  Bartram  was  conveyed  to  her  room,  and  Mrs, 
Hamilto!!  and  Louisie  bent  over  her  with  restoratives.  The 
faint  was  of  brief  duration — the  brown  eyes  opened,  wild 
and  wide,  bhe  started  up  on  her  elbow,  with  a  loud, 
startled  cry. 

'*  Where  is  he?"  she  wildly  asked.  '*  Where  is  Roysten 
Barrel!?" 

"  Whof    said  Mrs.   Hamilton.      *' There  is  no  such 

?erson,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bartram.  You  are  a  little  confused, 
am  afraid — you  fainted,  you  know,  at  sight  of  your 
husband's  cousin,  Mr.  Robert  Bartram.  It  was  a  shock, 
I  must  allow,  to  the  whole  of  us,  but  really  I  had  no  idea 
you  were  so  excitable." 

Estella  had  fallen  back  among  her  pillows  before  the 
kind  of  this  soothing  little  speech,  her  hands  covering  her 
face,  trembling  with  excitement  from  head  to  foot. 

*  Where  is  Mr.  Bartram?"  she  inquired,  in  a  smothered 
^oice. 

*'  Your  husband?  In  the  drawing-room,  my  dear,  with 
liis  cousin  and  that  lawyer  person." 

"  And  all  those  people? 

"  Your  guests?  Oh,  dispersed,  of  course,  to  spread  the 
wonderful  news.  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  talK  too 
much — you  are  not  at  all  strong.  Shall  I  remain,  or  will 
I  turn  down  the  light  and  leave  you  to  sleep?" 

**  Leave  me,  please." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  lowered  the  gas,  and  quitted  the  apart- 
ment with  Louise. 

But  Estella  did  not  sleep;  a  new  and  undreamed  of 
horror  had  taken  possession  of  her,  body  and  soul.  Not 
the  sight  of  Robert  Bartram,  the  heir,  had  caused  that 
swoon,  but  the  sight  of  the  man  she  thought  dead  months 
and  months  ago.  Captain  Roysten  Darrell.  And  he 
claimed  to  be  her  husband,  and  Alwyn  Bartram  knew 
nothing  of  that  dark  secret  of  her  life,  and  now  they  were 
closeted  together  and  all  would  come  out 


> '  it 


.r;  i 


!■ 


906 


estella's  husband. 


m' 


**  He  saw  me,  and  knew  me,  of  course,  and  he  will  tell 
tiis  story  first,  and  Alwyn  will  believe  him.  He  will  only 
be  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to  cast  me  off;  he  hates  me 
Already.  How  can  he  help  it,  loving  her  as  he  does.^  Oh, 
why,  why,  why,  was  1  ever  born?" 

She  lay  there,  suffering  such  anguish  as  few  suffer  m  a 
life-time.  It  seemed  to  her — poor,  despairing  child — that 
one  trouble  only  ended  to  herald  in  a  greater.  Would  she 
ever  again  look  upon  the  face  of  her  earthly  idol  after  this 
terrible  night?  She  lay  still  as  stone,  counting  the  pass- 
ing hours.  One  by  one  they  went — pale  and  overcast  the 
chill  November  morning  dawned.  Ko  sound  had  disturbed 
the  deep  silence  of  the  house — if  her  enemies  had  gone  she 
had  not  heard  them.  And  Alwyn — why  did  he  not  ap- 
pear at  her  bedside,  dark  and  terrible,  to  accuse  her  of  her 
-crime? 

The  new  day  had  fairly  broke  before  he  came.  Very 
pale,  very  stern,  indeed,  he  entered  at  last,  but  there  was 
no  wrath  in  his  face  for  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  wag 
unusually  gentle  and  tender  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"My  poor,  little,  pale  girl,''  he  said,  kissing  her, 
**  awake  still!    Have  you  not  been  asleep  at  all,  Estella?" 

"No.  ' 

"  You  nervous,  excitable  child!  I  hope  you  are  better, 
Ht  least?" 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  like  the  entrance  of  Banquo's  Ghost,  was  it  not 
—my  cousin's  startling  appearance  last  night?  No  wonder 
^  little,  nervous  subject  like  you  fainted.  Upon  my  word, 
I  felt  like  it  myself,"  he  laughed  a  brief,  bitter  laugh. 
"  Well,  it  is  he,  Essie — Robert  Bartram  in  the  flesh,  and 
no  spectral  illusion,  and  my  Uncle  Wylder's  heir  claims 
his  own.  Alwyn  Bartram  must  continue  a  dependtMit  on 
the  fortune  of  his  wife." 

JShe  turned  away  her  face. 

What  did  it  mean?  Had  Roysten  Darrell  then  gone, 
and  her  secret  with  him? 

"  Is  he  still  in  the  house?"  she  ventured  to  ask.  "  Does 
he  remain  here?" 

*' Here?  Most  certainly  not.  He  went,  and  his  legal 
adviser  also,  several  hours  ago;  but  I  thought  you  asleep, 
and  would  not  disturb  you.  For  myself,  I  was  long  past 
slumber.     I  have  been  taking  pedestrian  exercise  up  and 


e8tella's  husband. 


207 


legal 

deep, 

past 

and 


ilowQ  the  drawing-room,  and  thinking  over  what  is  best  tt 
be  done.  I  don't  see  why  we  need  change  our  programme 
for  this  unpleasant  little  contretempSy  Essie.  We  can  go 
abroad  all  the  same.  I  hate  New  York,  and  everything 
connected  with  it.  I  will  be  a  better  husband,  and  you  a 
happier  wife,  with  thousands  of  miles  between  us  and  it 
"We  will  depart  as  we  had  arranged,  Estella,  and  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  and  think  upon  th's  old  life  only  as  a  bad 
dream.  In  Italy — who  knows — I  maji  become  a  painter; 
here  I  am  nothing.  We  will  go,  and  to-morrow  I  will 
depart  for  Philadelphia." 
^*  Philadelphia?" 

**  Yes.  I  have  business  there,  and  old  friends  to  say 
good-bye  to.  There  need  be  no  fuss,  and  no  packing.  !5 
will  return  in  a  few  days.  Shall  you  get  up  to  breakfasL» 
Essie?" 

"  If  you  wish  if 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter!  1  am  going  out.  Robert  Bar- 
tram  has  effectually  taken  away  my  appetite  for  the  pres- 
ent. But  get  up  if  you  can,  and  don't  distress  yourself 
about  this  disagreeable  business.  We  are  not  quite  pau- 
pers, and  will  do  very  well,  I  dare  say.  Good-morningI 
Let  me  find  you  up  and  about  upon  my  return." 

He  kissed  her  once  more,  and  went  out.  She  turned  her 
face  to  the  wall,  with  a  choking,  hysterical  sob. 

*'  He  has  not  told,  then,  after  all,  and  I — I  can  not,  1 ' 
he  were  stern  and  cruel,  1  might  summon  courage  to  facv 
the  worst,  but  his  kisses  kill  me.  How  can  I  live  if  I  lose 
him?    I  love  him  so  dearly — so  dearly!" 

There  was  a  discreet  rap  at  the  door;  her  maid  came  to 
dress  her.  She  entered  before  her  mistress  could  speak, 
closed  the  door  after  her,  and  approached  the  bed,  with  a 
lace  full  of  importance. 

'*  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Bartram,"  said  Louise,  *'  but 
I  have  a  message  for  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  offended; 
if  1  had  not  brought  it,  one  of  the  other  servants  tvould, " 

She  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  produced  a  sealed 
note.  There  was  no  superscription  on  the  wrapper,  and 
Estella  looked  at  the  girl  in  wonder. 

**  Who  gave  you  this?" 

**  The  strange  gentleman,  madame,  who  came  last  night 
— Mr.  Robert  Bartram. " 


rl 


il> 


208 


estella's  husband. 


Estella  littered  a  faint  cry,  and  started  up  in  bed. 

**  What  do  you  mean?    Mr.  Robert  Bartram?" 

**  Yes,  madame,*'  responded  Louise,  with  infinite  calm. 
"  It  was  after  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  J  left  you.  1  chanced  to 
be  standing  in  the  area,  talking^  to — to  a  friend,  when  Mr. 
Robert  Bartram  and  the  little  gentleman,  the  lawyer, 
same  out  of  the  front  door.  He  espied  me  directly,  and 
leaned  over  the  railings,  and  asked  me  if  I  were  not  your 
maid." 

"  Well?''  breathlessly. 

**  I  told  him  yes,  madame,  and  then  ho  said  he  bad  half 
ft  dozen  words  to  say  to  me  in  private.  My  friend  depart- 
ed, the  lawyer  walked  on,  and  he  descended  to  the  area.  He 
ftsked  me,  as  a  most  particular  favor  to  deliver  this  note, 
unseen  by  any  one;  and  1 — what  could  1  do,  madame — ji 
took  it,  and  promised. " 

The  discreet  Louise  finished  her  little  narrative  without, 
thinking  it  necessary  to  refer  to  two  broad  gold  eagle* 
Mr.  Robert  Bartram  had  dropped  in  her  willing  palm. 

**  There  was  no  opportunity  of  delivering  it  last  night,** 
she  went  on.  **  You  were,  no  doubt,  asleep;  so  1  have 
taken  the  earliest  opportunity  this  morning.  1  trust  I 
have  not  done  wrong.     1  hope  madame  is  not  offended?** 

'*  No,**  said  Estella.     ''  Go— leave  me. " 
Will  madame  ring  when  she  pleases  to  want  me?" 
Yes,  yes!    Go!" 

The  girl  departed.  Before  the  door  was  well  closed, 
Estella  had  torn  open  the  sealed  note  and  devoured  its  con* 
tents.     It  was  insolently  brief: 


n 


i( 


(( 


My  Dear  Little  Estella, — You  know  me,  and  I 
know  you,  and  you  take  me  for  a  ghost,  no  doubt.  No, 
my  dear;  1  am  worth  a  dozen  drowned  men  yet,  old  Peter 
Fisher's  fable  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  1  sha*n*t 
tell  Alwyn  Bartram  that  little  story  of  the  past,  and  I 
have  every  reason  to  feel  certain  you  will  not,  if  you  can 
help  it.  I  wouldn't  tell  him  if  1  were  you.  He  only 
wants  an  excuse  to  leave  you  for  a  certain  black-eyed  little 
beauty  we  wot  of.  Don't  give  it  to  him.  Let  us  keep  our 
secret — he  will  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  I  want  to  talk 
the  mtater  over  with  you.  Suppose  you  meet  me  in  Union 
Square  this  afternoon,  at  four  o*clock.  Come  veiled,  so 
that  no  one  will  recognize  you.     Don*t  fail^  my  dear^  and 


bstella's  husband. 


80S 


redace  me  to  the  anpleasant  necessity  of  insisting  on  aa 
interriew  at  the  house. 

Devotedly  yours, 

**ROYSTEN   DARRELL." 


ii 


The  worst  had  come.  This  bad,  bold  man  was  her  macK 
ter;  she  must  pay  the  penalty  of  having  a  secret  from  her 
husband;  she  must  pay  the  penalty  of  Helen  Mallory's 
foolish  reticence;  she  must  meet  him. 

If  she  had  only  told  Alwyn  Bartram,  in  Chelsea — if  she 
had  only  told  him  during  those  happy  summer  months  up 
among  the  hills!  But  she  had  loved  him  so  unutterably — 
she  had  feared  his  anger  so  intensely — she  had  been  such 
a  wretched  little  coward  along;  and  now,  and  7wiu — 

Louise,  the  discreet,  waited  until  she  was  weary,  tha*"- 
morning,  for  madame's  bell  to  ring.  But  the  summons 
came  at  last,  and  entering,  she  found  her  up,  wrapped  in 
a  white  dressing-gown,  and  paler  than  that  cashmere  vest« 
ment. 

She  was  afraid  to  meet  the  girl's  keen  eye.  She  had 
always  dreaded  her;  she  had  infinite  reason  to  dread  hei 
now. 

**  She  will  tell  Mrs.  Hamilton  about  this  fatal  note," 
Mrs.  Bartram  thought,  **  and  she  will  tell  Alwyn.  Th© 
secret  I  have  kept  so  long  will  soon  be  known,  far  and 
wide,  now." 

It  was  past  noon  before  Louise  finished,  yet  her  lady^a 
toilet  was  of  the  simplest.  She  had  chosen  her  plainest 
dress — a  black  silk.  It  would  save  her  the  trouble  of 
changing  again  before  going  out;  and  she  must  keep  the 
appointment  Koysten  Darrell  had  made. 

**  I  will  ere  him  once,'*  she  said,  desperately.  **  1  will 
hear  why  he  did  not  tell  all  last  night.  This  very  even- 
ing Alwyn  shall  know  the  whole  miserable  secret  I  have 
hidden  from  him  so  long.  '  He  will  never  forgive  me,  and 
I — 1  can  but  die  at  his  feet!" 

She  took  her  slender  breakfast  in  her  room.  It  was  past 
two  when  the  meal  was  over.  Three  would  be  early  enough 
to  start;  she  could  walk  to  Union  Square  in  less  than  an 
hour. 

Her  husband  was  still  absent;  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  gone 
out  shopping;  only  Louise  was  on  the  watch.  But  how 
was  Louise's  mistress  to  know  that? 


•^10 


estella's  husband. 


IH 


**  There  is  a  secret  here,"  Louise  shrewdly  said  to  her 
self — *'  a  secret  money  is  to  be  made  of.     I  will  watcb 
little  Sly  Boots.     She  will  go  out  some  time  to  meet  thip 
man  who  sent  her  the  note.'' 

Louise  bad  her  reward.  A  quarter  past  three,  the  door 
of  Mi".  Bartram's  room  opened,  and  Mrs.  Bartram,  in  a 
dark  hpt  and  mantle,  and  closely  veiled,  glided  forth. 

The  girl  waited  until  she  had  nearly  gained  the  corner 
of  the  street;  then  she,  too,  veiled  and  cloaiicd,  glided 
from  the  area  and  followed. 

Estella  walked  all  the  way  to  Union  Square.  The  city 
clocks  were  just  chiming  four  as  she  reached  it,  and  the 
first  person  she  beheld  was  Eoysifcen  Darrell,  louiiguig  on  a 
bench,  smoking  a  cigar,  indolently  watching  the  passers 
by,  and  looking  like  a  Saxon  king,  with  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine glinting  on  his  leonine  hair  and  beard  and  brilliani 
azure  eyes. 

He  flung  away  his  cigar,  and  started  up  to  meet  Estella, 
holding  out  his  hand,  with  a  triumphant  smile  that  showed 
every  glittering  white  tooth.  He  knew  the  slender,  girlish 
figure,  despite  the  long,  disguising  mantle  and  the  pallid 
young  face — despite  the  close  blue  veil. 

**  1  thought  you  would  come,  Mrs.  Bartram,"  he  said,, 
coolly;  "  doubly  Mrs.  Bartram,  since  two  lucky  fellow<>. 
of  that  name  claim  you  as  their  dear  little  wife.  Bj 
George!  you're  an  out-and-out  modern  heroine,  Estella. 
They  all  commit  bigamy  in  the  novels,  nowadays,  and  the 
first  husband's  sure  to  turn  up.  I  thought  it  would  give 
you  a  staggerer  when  you  saw  me  last  night  after  taking 
it  for  granted  all  these  months  that  my  bones  were  bleach- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  cursed  Irish  Sea.  Well,  1  had  a 
narrow  escape.  The  *  Raven '  and  all  on  board — poor 
devils — went  to  Davy  Jones,  Oarlotta  among  the  rest. 
But  a  fellow  born  to  be  hanged — you  know  the  pleasant  old 
proverb,  eh?  Come,  let's  sit  down,  Essie;  here's  a  retired 
nook,  and  no  one  is  likely  to  recognize  you  through  that 
blue  screen." 

She  sunk  upon  the  bench — literally,  she  was  unable  to 
stand.  Physically  and  mentally  she  was  worn  out — her 
very  lips  were  the  pallid  blue  of  death. 

She  was  all  alone— a  poor,  little,  snared  bird  in  the  net 
of  the  fowler — a  helpless  waif,  drifted  about  at  the  mercy 
of  every  tide,  with  no  friend  to  turn  to  for  counsel  and 


estella's  husband. 


211 


>dvioe.  She  sat,  with  great,  piteous  brown  6368  fixed  m 
anutterable  dread  on  this  reckless  man's  face. 

He  took  out  another  cigar,  as  he  seated  himself  near  her, 
and  held  it  up. 

**  May  I?  he  said.  "I  can  talk  ever  so  much  better 
when  I  smoke,  Essie.  So  you  see,  my  dear  little  girl, 
Roysten  Danell,  the  husband  you  run  away  from  so 
cleverly,  whom  you  iried  to  poison  on  his  wedding-night— 
ah,  that  was  a  shabby  trick,  Estella — turns  up  again,  nut 
Koysten  Darrell,  but  Robert  Bartrani — Robert  the  Devil. 
Upon  my  word,  you  might  have  knocked  me  over  with  a 
feather,  when,  coming  home  from  that  luckless  voyage,  I 
found  out  my  old  Uncle  Wylder  was  dead  and  done  tor — 
Alwyn,  the  favorite,  disinherited,  and  Robert,  the  scape- 

frace,  the  black  sheep,  made  heir.  And  the  next  news  1 
ear  is  that  Alwyn  is  married — has  married  an  heiress,  a 
little  girl  from  Chelsea,  name  Estella  Mallory.  1  didn't 
flint,  Essie;  and  that  was  saying  a  good  deal  for  my 
iierves." 

He  laughed,  puffing  away  vigorously  at  his  cigar;  and 
/Cstella  sat,  with  both  hands  pressed  hard  together  in  her 
hp,  listening  in  a  silent  trance  of  unspeakable  dread. 

**  That  was  over  four  months  ago;  Estella;  and  why  did 
I  not  come  forward  at  once,  you  ask,  to  claim  my  own? 
Well,  for  no  better  reason,  my  dear,  than  that  it  did  not 
Buit  my  humor.  1  made  my  case  clear  to  old  Parchment, 
the  lawyer — got  my  pockets  replenished — took  life  easy,  and 
bided  my  time.  I  run  down  to  Fisher's  Folly,  and  Peter 
♦T)ld  me  about  your  adoption  by  the  late  Miss  Mallory,  and 
vour  romantic  marriage  with  Alwyn.  What  did  he  marry 
Jou  for,  Essie — love  or  money?" 

Still  mute,  she  sat  drinking  in  every  word,  but  totally 
unable  to  utter  a  syllable. 

'*  You're  a  pretty  little  thing  enough,  Essie,"  run  on 
Mr.  Robert  Bartram,  "  but  you're  by  no  means  the  radiant 
beauty  Mrs.  Rutherford  is,  and  these  painter  chaps  always 
CO  in  for  no  end  of  good  looks.  He  was  disinherited  and 
ae  was  jilted,  and  you  are  an  heiress,  and  he  marries  you. 
Not  very  flattering  is  it,  Essie?  You  had  better  have 
stuck  to  7ne.*' 

Still  no  reply.  Terrified,  bewildered — all  words  refused 
'x>  come.  She  sat  like  a  little  dark  statue,  waiting  for  her 
loom. 


'i 


H 


wX2 


EBTELLA'S    HIHFUND. 


**  And  he  loves  her  yet,**  went  on  her  morcileaa  oom- 
^nioQ — **  that  little  bluuk-eyedenchantreHS — and  she  lovei 
nim;  und^myfaithl  if  they  lion^t  make  a  moonlight  flitting 
of  it  in  the  end,  1  bIiuII  be  more  Hiirprised  than  i  have  been 
by  anything  that  has  hupponcd  yet.  Don't  give  him  the 
€bauce,  Estella — leave  him  before  ho  leaves  you.  Return 
to  your  first  and  rightful  spouse,  who  is  willing  to  over- 
looK  the  past,  and  take  the  bride  who  tried  to  poison  him 
back  to  his  bearL** 

**  I  never  tried  to  poison  you,**  Estela  said  at  last  with 
a  sort  of  sobbing  cry.  "  You  know  I  meant  it  for  myself! 
Oh,  I  wish — 1  wish  1  had  drunk  it  that  night,  and  ended 
my  misery  at  once!*' 

**  Then  my  handsome  cousin  makes  his  little  wife  none 
too  ha|ipy?  1  thought  as  much.  Come,  then,  Estella, 
leave  him,  return  to  your  rightful  husband,  give  him  the 
go-by — take  your  revenge — let  him  lose  wife  and  fortune 
mt  one  fell  swoop.*' 

"  I  am  no  wife  of  yoursl'*  ihe  girl  cried,  passionately; 
•*  I  never  was,  lloysten  Darrell!  1  will  never  speak  to  you 
^never  look  upon  your  face  again  I  I  will  go  straight  home 
from  this,  and  tell  my  husband  everything.  ** 

"  Do,**  said  the  young  man,  coolly,  **  and  when  he  turns 
you  out  of  doors,  with  hatred,  and  scorn,  and  race,  return 
to  me.  1  don*t  set  up  to  be  a  Christian,  but  in  this  case  I 
Mm  ready  to  obey  the  Scriptural  injunction,  and  forgive 
seventy  times  seven;  for  the  instant  you  tell  him  you  are 
my  wife — and  that  is  what  you  must  tell,  Essie,  if  you 
speak  the  truth — he  will  turn  you  out,  neck  and  crop.  1 
know  my  Cousin  Alwvn,  you  see,  my  dear,  and  1  know  the 
Bartram  pride,  which,  thank  the  gods,  1  have  none  of. 
He  will  cast  you  o£t,  glad  of  an  excuse,  and  he  will  go  to 
the  divine  Leonie  for  consolation,  and — will  get  it  *' 

She  uttered  a  low  cry  of  misery  and  despair. 

"  What  shall  I  do?**  she  said—"  what  shall  I  do?** 

**  I  will  tell  you,**  said  Robert  Bartram,  flinging  away 
his  cigar.  **  I  feel  for  you,  Essie — upon  my  soul  I  do. 
You  love  this  black-a-vised  cousin  of  mine  ten  thousand 
times  more  than  he  deserves,  and  he  doesn't  care  as  much 
for  you  as  I  do  for  the  ashes  of  this  smoked-out  ci^rar. 
Look  here,  now,  I'm  not  your  enemy,  and  I'll  keep  your 
flecret  He's  in  the  dark;  let  him  stay  there.  Keep  th« 
fltory  of  the  past  to  yourself,  and  I  will  do  the  same.'^ 


estella's  husband. 


218 


But  to  his  sarpriee,  Estolla  started  to  hor  foet,  her 
jiale  cheeks  llushiug,  her  brown  eyes  kiiidliug  with  sudden 
lire. 

"  Nol"  she  said.  **  1  have  deceived  him  too  long — I 
will  deceive  him  no  longer!  Let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may,  he  shall  know  all.  Let  tim  cast  mei  off  if  he 
will — 1  can  hardly  bo  more  miserable  than  1  am  now,  and, 
at  least,  my  conscience  will  be  at  rest.  I  will  tell  him  all, 
uirul  ho  shall  judge  between  us.  I  am  no  wife  of  yours, 
«-j  you  well  know,  Koysten  Darrell." 

The  ex-captain  of  the  '*  Kaven  '*  shrugged  his  broad 
shoulders. 

"  As  I  do  7iot  know — you  are  my  wife,  and  I  can  prove  it 
Do  as  you  please,  Mrs.  Uobert  Bartram — for  that  is  your 
r\unu^ — but  as  surely  as  you  tell,  so  surely  will  I  claim  you 
Hiid  take  you,  but  it  you  will  not  spare  you»*self,  why  should 
1  be  a  fool?  Go  home;  tell  Alwyn  liartram;  he  will  send  for 
me.  I  have  proofs  of  our  marriage  no  court  of  justice  MpH 
dispute.  The  clergyman  who  married  us  still  lives  at  Ko^- 
iedge — so  do  the  witnesses — so  does  Peter  Fisher;  and  here 
in  my  pockets  is  our  license  and  certificate.  Go  and  tell 
him — the  sooner  the  better — for  within  the  hour  I  carry 
you  off,  my  lawful,  wedded  wife.  Good-evening  to  you, 
Mrs.  Bartram — 1  dine  at  five.  For  the  present  we  must 
j^art,  but  to-morrow  1  trust  to  take  you  to  my  arms,  to 
lose  you  no  more." 

He  raised  his  hat,  made  her  a  courtly  bow,  a  diabolical 
hmile  of  derision  lighting  his  sunburned,  hand  some  face 
and  glittering  sapphire  eyes;  then  he  was  gone,  and  be- 
wildered Estella  was  alone. 

A  gentleman  passing,  stopped  suddenly  to  look  at  her; 
went  on,  stopped  again,  and  looked  back.  He  had  caught 
the  last  words;  he  had  seen  her  face  through  the  veil;  he 
had  even  heard  the  name  pronounced,  and  yet  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  eyes  and  ears.  It  was  Mr.  Waldron, 
and  he  had  recognized  the  lost  heir,  Robtrt  Bartram,  at  a 
glance. 

**  Can  that  be  Estella  Bartram?"  he  said,  to  himself — 
**  can  it  be?" 

He  stopped  again,  this  time  to  see  the  slender  figure  flit 
away,  and  vanish  in  the  November  dusk. 

**  What  the  deuce  is  she  doing  here,  and  with  Robert 
Bartram?  and  what  did  Robert  Bartram  mean  oy  those 


I'-i 


if! 


^u 


istella's  husband. 


!ii 


i  ist  words,  *  take  her  to  his  arms  to  lose  her  no  more? 
u  ind  she  such  a  little^  demure  puss,  too!  Neither  man  nor 
\;oman  was  ever  the  better  for  knowing  too  much  of  that 
reckless  scapegrace,  and  we  all  took  little  Essie  for  a  sort  of 
wedded  St.  Agues!  And  now,  what  would  Alwyn  Bartram 
say — Alwyn  Bartram,  as  proud  as  the  demon  and  as  jealous 
as  a  Turk?" 

*'  Halloo,  Waldron!"  called  a  familiar  voice  out  of  the 
gloaming,  and  a  gloved  hand  fell  lightly  on  his  shoulder; 
*'  moralizing  in  Union  Square,  like  Hervey  among  the 
Tombs?    What  is  the  meaning  of  that  mystified  far  3?" 

And  Mr.  Waldron  looked  up,  and  into  the  smiling  face 
of  Estella's  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXIIl. 

ROBERT  BARTRAM 'S  REVENGE. 

"  Did  you  meet  your  cousin?"  was  the  first  qnestion 
Mr.  Waldron  asked. 

Alwyn  Bartram  linked  his  arm  through  that  of  his 
•kriend,  and  walked  him  ofi  briskly. 

"  Come,  step  out!  I  go  to  an  aristocratic  symposium 
wo-night,  and  time  wears  apace.  Did  I  meet  Robert  Le 
.Diable?  Yes  at  the  other  entrance  of  the  square.  Ban^ 
Jie  fellow!  why  couldn't  he  wait  another  month,  before 
turning  up?  Truly  that  wise  old  saw,  '  There  is  many  a 
Jip — '  was  never  more  strikingly  verified.  It  was  like  the 
entrance  of  the  *  Marble  Guest '  in  the  opera." 

He  laughed  lightly,  but  his  dark  brows  contracted.  Far 
more  than  he  had  felt  it  a  year  ago,  he  felt  the  loss  of  his 
uncle's  fortune  now.  To  be  a  dependant  upon  the  bounty 
of  his  poor  little  unloved  wife  was  unutterably  galling  to 
his  proud  spirit. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Bartram?"  Mr.  Waldron  inquired,  with  a 
queer,  sidelong  look;  "  quite  recovered  from  her  fainting 
fit,  1  trust?" 

**  I  trust  so,"  carelessly.  '*1  have  not  seen  her  since 
©arly  morning.  She  is  a  nervous,  hysterical  little  thing — 
a  trifle  upsets  her.  I  dare  say  she  took  Robert  Bartram 
*oraghost." 

**  She  never  knew  him  before,  did  she?" 

*' Knew  him!"  Alwyn  stared  broadly.     **  My  dear  f el- 


i ! 


ESTEJ  l.A  S    HUSUAND. 


21tt 


1 


low,  of  course  not.     How  could  Essie  know  that  reckless 
ne'er-do-well?    Why  do  you  ask?" 

**  I  beg  your  pardon/'  Mr.  Waldron  said,  a  trifle  eff 
barrassed,  "  1  saw  him  talking  to  a  lady  just  now  in  Union 
Square,  and  1  give  you  my  word,  Bartram,  1  took  it  to  be 
you  wife  at  first.     But  she  was  closely  veiled,  and  no 
doubt  1  was  mistaken.'* 

*  *  Yes, "  responded  Mr.  Bartram,  in  a  tone  of  calm  con- 
viction, "  you  were  mistaken.  Estella  never  saw  my 
graceless  relative  until  last  night,  and  is  never  likely  to  Be« 
him  again." 

Mx.  Waldron  favored  his  companion  with  a  second  queer, 
sidelong  look.     He  had  his  own  opinion  about  that. 

*'  Is  the  French  notion  that  all  husbands  are  made  to  b** 
duped  true,  then,  after  all?"  he  thought.  **  Can  even 
little  Mistress  Innocence  pull  the  wool  over  the  eyes  of  her 
sharp-eyed  lord?  That  was  Estella  who  sat  there,  keeping 
an  appointment  with  Eeckless  Robert,  and  if  I  owned  a 
wife,  by  George!  he's  the  last  fellow  alive  I'd  want  her  to 
be  on  speaking  terms  with."  Then,  aloud:  **  So  you  stiU 
adhere  to  your  original  resolution,  Bartram,  and  g* 
abroad?" 

**  At  once.  To-morrow  I  go  to  Philadelphia,  where  I 
will  possibly  remain  over  a  week;  by  the  same  token,  od« 
is  never  too  fit  for  traveling  after  a  supper  at  Porte  Cray- 
on's rooms.     Will  you  show,  Waldron?' 

**  For  an  hour.  I  go  to  the  Rutherford  '  At  Home  '  t(- 
night — this  is  Thursday  evening,  you  know.  You  nevLr 
appear  at  those  grand  crushes  now?" 

No,"  replied  Mr.  Bartram,  moodily,  **  and  never  wil;. 
I  have  had  enough  of  the  peerless  Leonie.  Who  is  the  late^il 
victim?" 

"  That  handsome  Austrian  diplomat  from  Washington 
— the  Marquis  of  something — I  forget  the  name — terribly 
•rack- jaw,  though.  He  knew  her  uncle,  the  Count  De 
Montreuil,  in  Paris,  and  struck  up  an  intimacy  at  once  on 
the  strength  of  that  knowledge.  They  are  going  the  pace 
faster  than  Madame  Leonie  ever  went  it  before.  We  out- 
siders find  the  game  matchless  fun,  particularly  when  old 
Rutherford  is  scowling  on.  I  fancy  the  little  Rutherfori 
don't  care  a  fillip  for  the  Austrian,  but  she  is  losing 
another  victim  for  whom  she  does  care,  and  grows  wild  and 
iesperate.     Poor  little  girl!     1  think  she  doesn't  take 


f  :■ ;  ( 


H 1 


■!■  i 


M't 


1 ;!  I 


!i  Y  ■■■■■ 


St^i 


Hfij 


216 


estella's  husband. 


kinclly  to  the  gilded  matrimonial  fetters.  Le  feu  n$  vant 
»os~-the  what's  its  name,  you  know.  Do  we  part  here? 
Woil,  (dlons — we  meet  the  captains  at  the  citadel.  I'll  say 
good-bye  and  hcoi  voyage,  at  Porte  Crayon's  reuinon.*' 

The  two  men  parted.  Alwyn  Bartram  reached  home  not 
five  minutes  after  his  wife,  and  ran  up  at  once  to  his 
dressing-room.  The  frosty  ^November  night,  all  sparkling 
with  keen  stars  hung  over  the  gaslit  city  long  before  his 
toilet  was  made,  lie  drew  on  his  hat  and  loose  overcoat, 
and  ran  down-stairs,  pulling  on  his  gloves,  looking,  as  he 
always  looked,  elegant  and  handsome  enough  for  a  prince. 
The  drawing-room  door  stood  wide — the  gaslight  poured 
down  its  soft,  abundant  radiance,  and  standing  alone  in  a 
pink  dinner-dress,  he  saw  his  pale  little  wife.  He  stopped 
at  once,  and  came  in. 

**  Ah,  Essie,"  he  said,  kindly,  '*  better,  I  see?  You  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  will  not  wait  dinner  this  evening;  I  dine 
out.  And  by  the  by  don't  sit  up  for  me.  I  will  probably 
return  late.  Wakeful  nights  don't  agree  with  you,  my 
pale  little  girl.  Your  cheeks  are  whiter  than  the  japonicas 
m  your  hair.  Go  to  bed  early,  and  so  to  sleep,  and  as  I 
will  most  likely  be  off  in  the  morning  before  you  are  up,  I 
will  say  good-bye  now.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  grow 
a  trifle  less  pallid  and  anxious-looking  oefore  I  return.  1 
will  be  back  from  Philadelphia  in  a  week." 

He  kissed  one  of  the  colorless  cheeks — the  cold,  careless 
kiss  he  always  gave  his  wife.  Then,  before  she  could  utter 
a  word,  he  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  dined  alone  that  evening.  Mrs.  Bar- 
tram,  after  taking  the  trouble  to  dress,  did  not  even  make 
a  pretense  of  dining.  She  ascended  to  her  room,  and  shut 
herself  in,  and  all  the  long,  lonely  hours  of  that  sleepless 
night  she  did  battle  with  the  supreme  sorrow  of  her  life 
alone. 

Mr.  Bartram  returned  as  gas-lamps  and  twinkling  stars 
were  waxing  dim  in  heaven  and  earth.  He  had  barely 
time  to  snatch  an  hour's  sleep  in  his  dressing-room,  don 
traveling-gear,  order  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  hack,  and  start 
for  the  railway.  He  made  no  attempt  to  see  Estella,  and 
she,  poor  worn-out  child,  had  but  just  dropped  into  the 
deep  sleep  of  utter  weariness,  half  an  hour  before  his  re- 
turn. 


'} 


estella's  husband. 


217 


Mr.  Robert  Bartram  called  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and 
sent  up  his  card  to  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

She  had  but  just  breakfasted — pale  and  heavy-eyed,  with 
her  wan  little  face  whiter  than  the  Christmas  snows. 

It  was  Louise  who  brought  up  the  card,  and  a  verbal 
message: 

**  He  says  he  has  something  most  particular  to  say  to 
you,  madame.     He  is  waiting  in  the  drawing-room. *' 

Estella  went  down.  Timid  as  a  fawn,  with  no  self-re- 
liance, with  nc»  one  to  look  to  for  counsel  or  advice,  not 
the  least  in  the  world  strong-minded,  what  could  she  do? 
What  was  she,  frail  little  reed,  to  cope  with  this  giant  oak? 

**  I  thought  you  would  come,''  Eobert  Bartram  said, 
with  his  glittering  smile;  "it  is  your  best  policy,  Essie. 
Keep  friends  with  me,  my  dear  little  girl,  and  all  will  go 
t)n  velvet.  So  mon  mari  went  to  the  City  of  Brotherly 
Love,  bright  and  early  this  morning,  and  without  discov- 
ering his  little  Essie  had  been  to  Union  Square  yesterday 
ftfternoon?  Then  you  found  second  thoughts  best,  and 
didn't  tell,  after  all?" 

*'  I  did  not  tell,  because  I  could  not,"  Estella  replied, 
the  mournful  brown  eyes  meeting  the  mocking  blue  ones. 
**  I  had  no  opportunity.  But  upon  his  return  he  shall 
know  all." 

"  Then,  by  Jove!  I  had  better  get  my  pistol  hand  in 
practice  at  once.  How  is  he,  Essie — this  second  husband 
of  yours — a  crack  shot?  There'll  be  a  duel  as  sure  as  your 
name  is  Estella,  and  I'll  wing  him  if  1  can." 

The  brown  eyes  dilated  wild  and  wide — the  pale  lips 

garted — the  colorless  cheeks  grew  livid  with  a  new  terror, 
he  had  never  thought  of  that,  and  what  more  likely?  In 
all  her  novels  they  fought  duels  for  less  than  this,  and 
who  was  to  tell  her  the  romantic  age  of  duelling  had  passed 
away? 

*'  No!"  she  gasped.  **  A  duel?  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  Not 
for  ten  thousand  worlds!" 

"  Well,  it  shall  be  just  as  you  please,  Estella,  of  course; 
J  don't  care.  It  will  not  be  my  first  time  out,  by  long 
,  odds;  but  one  don't  care  to  shoot  one's  cousin.  Blood's 
V  7.hicker  than  water,  thfey  say,  and  Alwyn,  poor  devil,  never 
did  me  any  great  harm.  You  start  for  Europe,  they  tell 
me,  immediately  upon  his  return.  Why  not  keep  your 
l/ttle  secret  till  the  *  vasty  deep '  rolls  between  us?    I 


II 


zis 


estelia's  husband. 


ison't  care,  I  repeat^  but  for  your  sake^  you  know.  Once 
Aftifely  on  shipboard,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  if  you  like, 
aad — who  knows — the  excitement  of  the  story  may  cure  a 
fit  of  sea-sickness." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  broke  out  into 
hysterical  sobbing.  She  wanted  to  do  right  so  much — to 
tell  all — and  she  dared  not — she  dared  not!  She  was 
hemmed  in  on  every  side — utterly  in  the  toils  I 

*'  Don't  cry,  Essie!"  Robert  Bartram  said,  a  little 
touched.  "  It's  hard  on  you,  I  allow,  but,  after  all,  what 
he  doesn't  know  can't  harm  him.  Keep  your  secret  for- 
'^ver,  if  you  please;  I  sha'n't  peach.  I  own  Alwyn  Bartram 
more  than  one  grudge,  but  I  don't  bear  malice.  We 
'»^on*t  tell  him,  and  he'll  never  know  you  were  once  my 
wife," 

He  stopped — the  door  had  creaked.  Quick  as  lightning 
T'iashes  she  had  flung  it  wide,  and  discovered  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton.    She  started  back,  pale  with  guilt. 

*'  Come  in,  madame,"  said  Robert  Bartram,  with  im- 
perturbable sang  froid;  you'll  catch  cold,  airing  your  ears 
ut  key-holes.  My  dear  Mrs.  Bartram,  this  lady  has  been 
listening  to  our  conversation.  If  there  is  any  part  of  it  she 
did  not  overhear,  perh?ips  you  will  kindly  repeat  it.  For 
myself  I  have  not  time.    G ood-af  ternoon,  mesdames,  both !" 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bartram!"  said  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, drawing  herself  up  stiffly.  **  1  am  not  accustomed  to 
^lay  the  eavesdropper,  or  being  insulted  by  the  accusation. 
I  discovered  this  nota  on  the  floor  of  Mrs.  Bartram^s  cham- 
■|i>er,  and  came  here  at  unce  to  restore  it.  I  rapped,  but 
your  conversation  was  too  absorbing,  apparently,  to  permit 
you  to  hear  me.  Here  it  is,  Mrs.  Bartram— excuse  me 
for  interrupting  your  tete-a-tete^  and  permit  me  to  with- 
draw without  bringing  it  to  an  untimely  end. " 

Her  dull  little  eyes  gleamed  vindictively.  Estella,  white 
and  frightened,  held  out  her  hand  for  the  crumpled  paper, 
and  uttered  a  low  cry  as  she  received  Robert  Bartram's 
note.     He,  too,  recognized  it  at  the  same  instant. 

"  Ah!"  he  said,  **  culpably  careless  of  you,  Mrs.  Alwyn 
-Bartram,  to  leave  your  billet-doux  knocking  about  in  this 
maniaer.  You  have  cast  your  eye  over  it,  have  you  not, 
»lear  madame?  How  do  you  like  the  style  of  composition?" 

**I  disdain  to  reply!"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  scornfully, 
•wweepin^  out  of  the  room.     **  It  is  quite  in  keeping  with 


'1  '  B  1 1 


»o. 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


Sl» 


all  I  have  ever  heard  of  Mr.  Robert  Bartram  to  insult  n 
lady!" 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out,  with  a  smil 
ing  bovr.     Then  he  shut  it,  and  looked  at  Estella. 

**  You  have  put  your  foot  in  it,  Essie,'*  said  Robert  Bar- 
tram,  solemnly;  "  the  game's  up!  Tiiat  old  cantankerous 
catamount  has  read  every  word.  Put  the  note  in  the  fire 
and  deny  all  black,  when  Alwyn  returns,  and  never  be  so 
foolish  as  to  keep  tell-tale  documents  loose  about  you  again. " 

He  turned  as  he  spoke  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  And 
Estella  cowered  down,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  lost  in 
a  trance  of  shame,  and  misery,  and  despair. 

Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  malignantly  com- 
pressed mouth,  walked  straight  from  the  drawing-room  *« 
her  own  apartment  to  begin  her  work  of  mischief. 

Robert  Bartram  was  right — Mrs.  Hamilton  had  over^ 
heard,  and  the  game  was  up.  Her  fa-^"  was  full  of  vin- 
dictive triumph,  as  she  drew  the  writing  materials  before 
her,  and  sat  down  to  indite  an  epistle  to  Mr.  Alwyn  Bar- 
tram: 

New  York,  Dec.  8,  18— 

"  Dear  Mr.  Bartram, — If  your  business  will  permit* 
you  in  any  way,  I  really  wish  you  would  make  all  possible 
haste  back  home.  Circumstances  of  a  liiost  mysterious, 
most  startling,  most  painful  nature,  have  transpired  sinc(v 
your  departure.  I  feel  it  my  painful  duty— sorely  against 
my  inclination,  I  assure  you — to  report  those  circum- 
stances now. 

"  Were  you  aware,  dear  Mr.  Bartram,  that  your  wife 
and  your  cousin,  Robert  were  old  friends?  Somethingf 
more  than  friends,  1  greatly  fear  from  all  I  have  heard  and 
seen  of  late,  and  exceedingly  anxious  to  keep  the  fact  of 
that  old  friendship  from  you — you,  of  all  people  alive,  who 
should  knowevery  antecedent  of  your  wife.  He  has  writ- 
ten  to  her — she  has  met  him  by  appointment  in  Union 
Square.  He  comes  here,  and  holds  long,  private  conver- 
sations with  her,  and — but  perhaps  1  had  better  detail  facts 
as  the  facts  occurred. 

*'  You  will  recollect,  then,  that  on  the  first  night  of 
Mr.  Robert  Bartram 's  most  unlooked-for  appearance,  you** 
wife  fainted  dead  away  at  sight  of  him.     We  attributed  i 
at  the  time  to  her  hypersensitive  nerves,  and  pitied  hei.' 
accordingly.     Alas!  dear  Mr.  Bartram,  I  fear  somethinf* 


J^,[' 


390 


estella's  husband. 


far  worse  caused  that  fainting  fit.  Mr.  R.  B.  took  no 
notice  on  the  occasion,  appareuLiy,  but  before  leaving,  his 
sharp  eyes  signaled  out  Louise,  and  he  bribed  her  to  de- 
liver a  note  to  her  wiistress,  which  hi  had,  already  preparei^, 
in  his  pocket.  You  see  by  this  that  he  expected  to  meet 
her.  Louise,  1  regret  to  say,  like  most  of  her  class,  proved 
corruptible — took  the  bribe  and  delivered  the  note.  Mrd. 
Bartram  received  it  with  much  agitation,  read  it,  and  by 
some  strange  infatuation  did  not  destroy  it.  That  after- 
noon, closely  veiled  and  plainly  dressed,  she  went  out,  on 
loot  and  alone.  Louise,  scenting  a  secret,  followed  her,  saw 
her  enter  Union  Square,  and  meet  Mr.  K.  B.  They  seated 
themselves  in  a  quiet  corner,  and  indulged  in  a  long  talk. 
Mr.  R.  B.,  Louise  says,  seemed  insolently  familiar,  laughed 
and  smoked  through  the  whole  interview,  while  Mrs.  Bar- 
tram  cried  behind  her  veil,  and  looked  frightened  and  dis- 
tressed. They  parted  about  dusk,  and  the  girl  says  you 
barely  missed  encountering  them,  for  you  passed  her,  with 
your  friend,  Mr.  Waldron,  a  few  minutes  after  they  sepa- 
rated. Next  morning  you  left  for  Philadelphia.  And  now 
comes  the  most  painful  part  of  my  painful  story.  To-day 
while  arranging  some  trifles  in  Mrs.  Bartram 's  chamber  I 
found  a  crumpled  paper  on  the  floor.  Almost  unconsciously 
1  picked  it  up  and  glanced  over  it.  Judge  of  my  horror  to 
find  it  the  note  delivered  to  Louise  by  R.  B.,  insolently 
familiar  in  tone,  and  signed  Roysten  Darrell,  My  first 
impulse  was  to  give  it  to  Mrs.  B.  and  say  nothing  more 
about  it;  but  upon  second  thoughts  I  found  such  a  course 
would  be  basest  injustice  and  ingratitude  to  yoti,  my  kind 
f  riepd  and  employer.  I  sat  down  and  copied  it — that  copy 
please  find  inclosed.  I  can  not  comprehend  its  strange 
insinuations;  perhaps  you  can  do  so.  Having  copied  it,  I 
took  the  original  document  in  my  hand  and  went  to  look 
ior  your  wife  to  return  it.  Louise  met  me,  and  informed 
me  with  a  meaning  smile,  she  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
entertaining  Mr.  3&.  B.  I  knocked  at  the  door;  they  did 
not  hear  me.  I  knocked  again;  still  they  were  so  absorbed 
in  conversation  that  it  was  unheeded.  1  turned  the  han- 
dle to  enter.  As  I  did  so,  these  words  spoken  by  Mr.  R. 
B.  reached  me  plainly: 

**  *  I  owe  Alwyn  more  than  one  old  grudge,  but  I  don't 
bear  malice.  We  won't  tell  him,  and  he^U  never  knotif 
you  were  once  my  wife. 


^j 


estella's  husband. 


S3V 


i 


f 


**  I  stood  stunned.  At  the  same  instant  the  man's  sharp 
eyes  saw  me;  he  sprung  up,  and  addressed  me  with  inse* 
lent  insults.  His  words  left  me  but  one  dignified  alteruV' 
tive.  1  passed  from  the  room,  came  straight  to  my  own* 
and  sat  down  to  write  this. 

**  Now,  dear  Mr.  Bertram,  1  earnestly  trust  you  will  not 
be  offended  with  me.  1  am  doing  what  1  feel  my  duty. 
Come  back,  I  entreat — come  back  at  once,  before  this 
dreadful  scandal  becomes  public.  There  is  some  terrible 
mystery  to  be  revealed;  for  pity's  sake  come  back  and  find 
it  out.  il,  B,  is  the  most  vicious  and  unprincipled  of  men 
— no  fitting  acquaintance  for  any  pure  wife  or  maiden. 
Come  back,  I  implore  you,  and  forbid  him  the  house. 
*'  Faithfully  yours, 

"  Henrietta  Hamilton." 

Mrs.  Hamilton's  malicious  old  face  flowed  with  triumph ' 
ant  malice  as  she  folded  and  directed  this  precious  letter. 

**  I  think  1  hnve  paid  you  out,  Mr.  Robert  Bartram;  and 
as  for  you,  my  spotless  little  dove  from  Massachusetts, 
we'll  see  whether  you  are  any  more  spotless  than  your 
neighbors,  after  all." 

The  housekeeper  posted  her  letter,  and  prepared  to  meet 
Mrs.  Bartram  with  her  Judas  smile  and  treacherous,  caress« 
ing  voice.  But  Estella  kept  her  room  all  next  day,  too 
utterly  heart-sick  and  miserable  to  meet  any  one. 

On  the  second  day,  Bobert  Bartram  called,  but  Estella 
refused  to  see  him.  He  smiled  coolly  as  Louise  delivered  the 
message,  took  out  his  pocket  book,  scribbled  a  line  or  two 
in  pencil,  and  handed  it  to  the  girl. 

"Give  Mrs.  Bartram  that,"  he  said,  "and  tell  her  I 
will  call  again  to-morrow  eve?:mg. " 

Louise  took  up  the  note,  untwisting  it  by  the  way,  and 
making  herself  mistress  of  its  brief  contents: 

* '  I  must  see  you  before  A.  returns.     It  is  highly  im- 

r)rtant     Don't  plead  illness,  and  come  down  when  next 
call." 

**  He  has  her  in  his  power,"  thought  Louise,  "  or  he 
never  would  write  like  that.  She  will  see  him  to-morrof ' 
for  certain." 

Louise  was  correct  in  her  surmise.  When,  late  the  fol- 
lowing   afternoon,  Robert  Bartram  reappeared,  he   wa^ 


•'  '; 


\  { 


i    I 


222 


estella's  husband. 


ushered  at  cnce  into  the  ...wing-room,  and  Estella,  pallid 
and  wan  as  a  spirit,  glided  in  after  him,  wearing  still  a 
loose,  white  morning-robe. 

The  white  cheeks,  the  hollow,  mournful  brown  eyes,  the 
dark  circles  beneath  them,  told  their  own  sad  story  of 
**  tears  at  night  instead  of  slumber.'* 

**  Sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  poorly,  Essie,"  Hobert 
Bartram  said,  in  his  cool  way.  "  The  fellow  isn't  worth 
breaking  your  heart  over.  If  ho  cared  for  you,  now!  but 
bah!  that  black-eyed  little  houri  is  more  to  him  than  a 
ship-load  of  pale  Estellas.  Let  the  beggar  go,  and  take 
up  with  7)26  again.  I'm  the  richer  man,  and  the  better- 
looking  man  of  the  two;  and,  bv  Jove!  I've  a  far  better 
right  to  you  than  he  has,  as  you  know." 

His  blue  eyes  glittered  with  devilish  malignity  as  he  ut- 
tered the  words;  for  in  the  half -open  door- way  he  had 
caught  sight  of  a  tall,  dark  figure,  standing  motionless, 
listening  to  every  word. 

**  Come,  Estella,"  he  said,  encircling  her  waist  sudden- 
ly with  his  arm.  *'  You  don't  really  care  for  Alwyn  Bar- 
tram,  you  know,  and  you  do  care  for  me.  Then  leave  him 
forever  and  come  with  me. " 

She  broke  from  him  with  a  loud,  wild  cry — a  cry  so  full 
of  horror  and  despair  that  it  haunted  him  to  his  dying 
day. 

The  dark  figure  had  strode  forward  and  confronted  them. 
There  before  her,  pale  as  death,  stern  as  doom,  stood  Al' 
wyn,  her  husband! 


J    1 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


THE    SECOND    FLIGHT 


A  second's  dead  silence — Alwyn  Bartram,  white  to  the 
very  lips  with  a  horror  too  intense  for  words,  Robert  Bar- 
tram with  his  insolent,  defiant  smile,  his  glittering  triumph- 
ant, azure  eyes,  and  Estella  numb — stone  still — ghastly  as 
death. 

Robert  Bartram  was  the  first  to  speak. 

**  My  good  cousin,"  he  said,  his  diabolical  smile  at  its 
brightest,  "  this  is  an  astonisher!  Haven't  you  returned 
from  Philadelphia  with  embarrassing  suddeuess?  1  give 
you  my  word,  we  no  more  expected  to  see  you — this  lady 


BSTELLA  S    HL'SBAND. 


228 


gind  1 — than  the  Marble  Guest  in  *  Don  Giovanni.  *  I  hope 
^ou  haven't  been  listening — our  conversation  was  not  in- 
tended for  other  ears  than  our  own." 

He  looked  full  in  his  cousin's  eyes  as  he  spoke,  his  own 
gleaming  like  blue  flame.  The  wicked,  brilliant  eyes  never 
faded — his  arm  still  clasped  the  benumbed,  unconscious 
Estella. 

*'  Release  my  wife,*'  were  Alwyn  Bartram's  first  words, 
spoken  in  a  dull,  thick  voice;  '*  stand  off,  Ilobert  Bartram, 
and  let  her  go,  or  by  the  eternal  Heaven,  I'll  shoot  you  like 
a  dog!" 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  and 
drew  forth  a  revolver.  At  its  first  sharp  click,  the  ex-cap- 
tain of  the  '*  Raven,"  as  daring  and  reckless  a  bruvoas  ever 
*.rod  the  pirate's  quarter-deck,  dropped  his  arm  from  the 
slender  waist,  as  though  it  were  red  not.  There  was  that 
in  the  livid  face  and  dark,  deadly  eyes  of  his  cousin  Alwyn 
that  told  him  he  would  keep  his  word. 

**  So,"  said  Robert  Bartram,  with  a  short  laugh,  *'  we 
go  fast,  my  friend!  I*m  not  afraid  of  you,  nor  your  six- 
shooter,  dear  old  boy;  but  pistol  practice  in  the  presence 
of  a  lady  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Put  up  your  ugly  little 
toy,  Alwyn — you'll  frighten  Essie  into  fits,  and  we  can 
some  to  an  amicable  understanding  without  its  interven- 
tion. Put  it  up,  and  don't  glower  upon  us  in  that  dia- 
')olical  way.  Take  things  easy  if  you  can,  and  tell  us  how 
you  came  to  drop  upon  us  here  like  an  avenging  angel, 
when  we  took  you  to  be  safely  located  in  the  pleasant  City 
of  Brotherly  Love?" 

Alwyn  Bartram  drew  out  a  letter  and  handed  it  to  the 
smiling  speaker. 

**  Did  you  write  that?"  he  asked,  in  the  same  unnatural 
voice. 

"  Did  I  write  this?  No,  my  Alwyn,  I  did  not.  My 
big,  slap-dash  fist  isn't  in  the  least  like  this  spidery  scrawl, 
a  '  crabbed  piece  of  penmanship,'  as  the  fellow  says  in  the 
play.  But  if  you  ask  me  if  the  composition  is  mine,  I  an- 
swer unhesitatingly,  yes — and  the  signature,  *  Roysten  Dar- 
cell.'  Don't  you  know  I  dropped  the  Bartram  when  1 
latarted  in  life  on  my  own  hook  and  became  Captain  Dar- 
rell,  of  the  good  brig  *  Raven?'  Ah!  those  were  merry 
days,  when  1  was  '  Reckless  Roysten,'  king  of  the  quarter- 
deck, and  master  of  a  set  of  as  bold  spirits  as  ever  scoured 


nil 


w 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAKB, 


,41 


^i?> 


i 


l>l|f| 


the  high  seas,  or  cheated  the  revenue  of  our  country.  I 
wrote  a  letter  to  little  Essie  here  on  the  night  of  my  ar- 
rival— the  night  she  fainted,  poor  little  girl — and  this  is  a 
verbatim  copy.  Your  worthy  housekeeper  sent  you  this, 
1  dare  swear?" 

*'  Tell  me  what  it  means." 

The  two  men  stood  eyine  each  other  with  faces  of  deadly 
meaning — Alwyn  livid  to  the  lips,  Robert  flushed,  smiling, 
triumphant. 

**  A  long  story,  my  Alwyn — too  long  to  tell  stand iug. 
Let  us  sit  down  comfortably — here's  Essie,  looking  fit  to 
drop.     Estelia,  my  dear,  don*t  wear  that  frightened  face 
*— no  one  shall  hurt  you.     Come,  here  is  a  seat.*' 

In  the  height  of  his  malignant  victory,  that  paid  off 
many  an  old  score,  he  encircled  her  with  his  arm  for  the 
second  time,  and  turned  to  lead  her  to  a  sofa.  But  sud- 
denly as  lightning  strikes,  Alwyn  Bartram's  strong  arm 
shot  right  out  straight  from  the  shoulder,  and  his  clinched 
fist  struck  the  bravo  between  the  eyes  with  a  dull  thud 
bad  to  hear.  It  was  a  blow  to  fell  an  ox — it  laid  thd  mus- 
cular captain  of  the  '^  Haven  "  flat  on  the  carpet,  with  a 
fall  that  shook  the  house,  the  red  blood  spouting  high. 

It  was  the  first  thing  to  rouse  Estelia  from  her  dull  tor- 
por of  horror.  With  a  wild,  womanly  scream  at  sight  of 
the  flowing  blood,  she  fled  to  the  door,  and  fell  prone  head- 
long on  the  threshold. 

The  noise  of  the  fall,  the  sound  of  that  piercing  scream, 
had  brought  the  whole  startled  household,  with  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton at  their  head.  The  master  of  the  house  glanced  over 
his  shoulder,  with  a  face  of  dark,  changeless  color. 

**  Take  her  away,"  he  said  to  his  housekeeper;  **  and 
for  the  rest  of  you  begone." 

The  housekeeper  and  the  lady's-maid  understood  all  at 
a  glance.  Between  them  they  raised  the  insensible  Es- 
telia, and  in  dead  silence  bore  her  away.  As  the  drawing- 
room  door  closed  again  the  fallen  hero  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  dashed  the  flowing  blood  out  of  his  blinded  eyes. 

**  You  shall  pay  for  this,  Alwyn  Bartram.  Yes  " — with 
a  fearful  oath — **you  shall  pay  dearly  for  this!  There 
are  some  things  only  heart's  blood  can  wipe  out,  and  a 
blow  is  one  of  them. 

^*  And  a  disgraced  wife  another,''  the  artist  said,  in  a 
voice  that  never  rose.     **  I  understand  you,  and  you  shall 


I 


■  '• 


E8TELLA  S    lIUflHAND. 


*4U 


it 


t( 


tXAwe  your  will.     Now,  then,  let  us  underatand  each  otheri 
if  we  can.     What  is  my  wife  to  you?** 

'*  Your  wife?'  Kobert  liartiam  retorted,  with  a  sneer- 
ing laugh;  "your  wife,  poor  tool!  Why,  she  has  never 
been  that  for  one  short  hour!" 

*'No?    Then  what  is  she?'* 

**  Mine,  Ahvyn  Bartram — mine,  my  handsome  artist 
cousin— mine,  my  fastidious  hero  of  the  puint-pot!  Mine, 
long  before  siie  ever  saw  you,  and  mine,  by#  all  that  is 
mighty  above,  she  shall  be  again!  Ah!  Cairiar's  wife  must 
be  above  suspicion,  must  she?  How  does  Caisur  like  it 
when  he  knows  she  is  not  his  wife  at  all?  It  is  paying 
you  back  in  your  own  coin,  my  lady-killing  Adonis — the 
pale,  little  Essie  has  tricked  you  as  nicely  as  ever  the  be- 
witching Leonio  Rutherford  tricked  the  millionaire.** 
Will  you  explain?" 

And  you  will  take  it  coolly,  will  you?  I  thought  the 
Bartram  blood  was  hotter  than  that.  Yes,  my  dear  Al- 
wyn,  1  will  explain.  Before  ever  Estella  Mallory  left 
Fisher's  Folly  and  fled  to  her  Chelsea  aunt  she  was  my 
wedded  wife.'* 

**  What  proof  have  you  of  this?*' 

**  You  don't  believe  my  word,  then?  Ev3ry  proof  that 
ever  existed  of  a  n^arriage.  Here  is  the  certificate  duly 
dated  and  signed — read  it  for  yourself.  If  that  does  not 
satisfy  you,  ask  Estella,  and  see  what  she  says.  If  that 
does  not  convince  you,  take  a  little  journey  to  Hockledge; 
see  the  church  register;  have  an  interview  with  the  clergy- 
man whose  name  is  appended  to  that  paper;  exa.nine  the 
witnesses;  ask  Estella's  late  guardian,  Mr.  Peter  Fisher. 
If  all  that  is  not  proof  sufficient,  then  the  devil  is  in  it!" 

**  Enough!  Being  your  wife,  as  you  say,  why  then  did 
she  leave  you  and  fly  to  Helen  Mallory?" 

**  A  girl's  whim — she  was  young  and  silly,  you  know. 
It  was  dull  for  her  there.  Peter  Fisher  was  a  grim  old 
tyrant — she  and  I  quarreled — she  was  jealous  of  my 
little  stewardess,  Carlotta.  She  even  tried  to  poison  me — 
quite  true,  upon  my  honor;  ask  her  if  you  don't  believe 
ine,  and  I  see  you  don't.  And  she  would  have  done  for 
me — killed  me  as  dead  as  a  door-nail — only  she  overdid  it 
— doubled  the  dose,  and  the  doctor  and  a  beneficent  stom- 
ach-pump came  in  time  to  save  my  precious  life.  The 
tittle  fiendess  got  frightened  and  ran  away — made  out 

8 


• 


' 


Ml 


n2Q 


ESTELLA'S    HUSnAND. 


f!i|  mir. ... 

mim 


ohclsoa  somohow  and  hor  aunt,  and  1  never  set  evod  upoq 
her  again  until  I  saw  her  in  this  room  m  your  wife,  loi] 
look  nlanlc,  my  worthy  cousin,  and  no  wonder.  You  took 
her  for  an  angel,  didn't  you?  and  you  find  out  she's  the 
other  thing.  But  the  whole  story's  gospel  facts,  for  all 
jhat,  as  she  can  tell  you  herself,  if  she  chooses  to  speak  the 
truth." 

*'  Did  Helen  Mallory  know  all  this?" 

"*  Can't  say;  but  1  think  it  extremely  likely.  I'll  do 
both  her  and  Estella,  though,  the  justice  to  say  they 
thought  me  dead  before  she  married  you.  Old  looter 
Fisher  sent  them  an  account  of  the  wreck  of  the  '  Kuvon,* 
and  the  loss  of  all  hands,  so  little  Essie  thought  herself  a 
widow  when  she  became  your  wife.  And  now,  Mr.  Alwyn 
Bartram,  you  have  heard  the  whole  story,  and  when  our 
little  account  is  settled,  the  survivor  can  take  his  rival's 
tridow  with  the  happy  consciousness  that  she  is  all  his  own 
'it  last.  Good-evening  to  you — a  friend  of  mine  will  wait 
upon  you  presently.  They  say — those  others — the  age  of 
iueling  is  obsolete,  but  a  Bartarm  never  shows  the  white 
leather.  Go  to  Essie,  let  her  deny,  if  she  can,  that  she 
fras  my  wife  before  she  was  yours." 

He  was  gone — his  felt  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes — swagger- 
ing down  the  house  steps.  The  friendly  twilight  and  the 
broad  brim  of  his  hat  hid  that  ugly  gash  between  his  eyes. 
He  laughed,  a  wicked,  demoniac  laugh,  as  he  gained  the 
street. 

'*  Who  is  vector  noiu,  Alwyn  Bartram?  Curled  darling 
cf  the  gods,  wiio  wins  at  last?  I  think  our  old  boyish  scores 
and  grudges  are  likely  to  be  cleanly  wiped  out  this  time. 
You  have  crowed  it  over  Robert  the  Devil  many  a  long 
year,  my  handsome  artist-cousin,  but  it  is  a  long  lane  that 
has  no  turning.  We  have  got  to  the  turn,  and  I  take  your 
fortune,  your  wife,  and  your  life  at  one  fell  swoop.  I 
hate  you,  my  elegant  Alwyn — I  have  hated  you  for  many 
a  day,  and  if  you  leave  our  little  rendezvous  alive  after 
that  blow  between  the  eyes,  then  Robert  Bartram's  good 
right  hand  and  steady  eye  will  have  lost  their  cunning  for 
the  first  time." 

Two  hours  after  that,  while  yet  Alwyn  Bartram  sat 
rtlone  in  the  darkened  drawing-room  with  his  unutterably 
bitter  thoughts,  a  tall,  black-bearded  gentleman,  witn 
^<ery  mu«h  of  Robert  Bartram'a  own  dare-devil  swagger. 


: 


K8TELLA*S    ULSBAND. 


far* 


'?' 


was  ushered  in.  Tho  Horvunt  lightud  the  gas,  and  the  master 
of  tho  house  arose  to  receive  tlio  visitor,  with  a  face  that 
seemed  carved  in  stone. 

*'  Ami  if  somothinj;  horrid  doesn't  happen  soon,"  re- 
marked Ihe  servant  vviio  li^'hted  the  gas,  returning  to  the 
k.tchen  conchive,  *' then  I'm  u  Dutcliman.  Master's  got 
ten  years  older  in  one  hour." 

The  black-boarded  stranger's  visit  was  of  tho  briefest. 
>  quarter  of  an  hour,  an' I  tho  street  door  closed  behind 
him,  his  errand  satisfactorily  concluded. 

*'  I  will  call  upon  your  friend,  Mr.  Waldron,  then,  im- 
mediately," he  said,  with  his  blandest  smile.  "  And  the 
hour — seven  to-morrow — the  place,  Weehawken.  Don'^ 
trouble  yourself  in  any  way,  my  dear  sir;  Mr.  Waldrou 
and  I  will  arrange  all  minor  matters.     Good-night." 

It  was  Mr.  Bartram  who  let  his  black-a-vised  visitor  out 
in  person.  As  he  closed  the  door,  Mrs.  Hamilton  came 
sweeping  along  the  hall,  with  a  concerned  face  and  a 
mighty  swish  of  silk.  The  young  man  turned  his  rigid, 
death- white  face  to  her. 

"■  7.8  Mrs.  Bartram  better?    Is  she  awake?**  he  asked, 

*^  Yes— to  both  questions.  Dear  Mr.  Bartram,  1  have 
been  so  anxious  to  see  you — so  anxious  to  know  whether  I 
have  done  right  or  wrong  in  sending  you  that  fatal  letter. 
Believe  me,  1 — " 

But  he  cut  her  short  with  an  imperious  wave  of  his  hand* 

**  That  will  do,  madame — I  understand  you  and  your 
motives  perfectly.  Later  we  will  find  time  to  settle  oup 
little  account.     Where  will  I  find  my — your  mistress?" 

"  In  her  dressing-room." 

He  waited  for  no  more.  He  ascended  tho  stairs  aad 
went  straight  to  the  apartment  named.  Without  ceremony 
he  opened  the  door,  and  saw  Estella  on  her  knees,  her  face 
buried  in  the  pillows  of  a  lounge.  She  lifted  her  pallid, 
haggard  face  in  speechless  terror  to  the  tall  dark  form 
and  stony  countenance  of  the  husband  she  loved — the  hus- 
band she  had  lost. 

**  One  word,  Estella,"  he  said,  in  a  deep,  concentrated 
voice,  his  dark  eyes  seeming  to  burn  into  her  very  soul-^ 
**  Only  one  word,  and  the  truth,  if  you  can.  Are  yo' ' 
Robert  Bartram's  wife?" 

Sh«  lifted  her  imploring  hands  with  a  piteous,  hysterxi»l 
fiob. 


! 


1 

i'     i 
.      1 

1 

1 

.  If 


lllvil 


m 


I  ')i. 


828 


estella's  husband. 


"  Alwyn!"  she  cried,  **  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake—'* 
**  Hush/'  he  interrupted,  sternly;  **  no  more  hysterNv 
—no  more  deceit.     1  have  asked  you  for  one  word — 1  wUi 
hear  no  more.     Were  you  ever  married  to  Bobert  Bartrant 
— ^yes  or  no?*' 

**  ri^.y— but—" 

**  That  will  do!  Living  or  dead,  I  never  want  to  look 
upon  your  wicked,  treacherous  face  again!" 

With  the  merciless  words— the  mercilessly  cruel  words 
she  might  never  forget  to  her  dying  day — he  turned  and 
left  her — the  bitter  words  of  farewell;  the  last  he  was  ever 
to  address  to  her  for  many  and  many  a  weary  year!  With 
a  low,  long,  wailing  moan,  the  wretched  girl  nung  herself 
down  among  the  yielding  pillows. 

"  Oh,  my  God!"  was  her  passionate  cry,  **  lot  me  die- 
let  me  die!     What  have  I  ever  done  that  my  life  should  lua 
all  one  long  torture?" 

She  lay  there  for  hours.  The  night  had  fallen — tl^ 
cheerless  December  night.  The  snow  fell  and  the  wiiid 
blew;  the  fireless  room  grew  icy  cold.  But  she  never 
stirred — the  inward  anguish  dulled  all  sense  of  outwai^d 
suffering. 

**  Oh,  merciful  Lord,"  her  tortured,  undisciplined  hears 
cried,  ""  grant  me  a  short  life!  My  misery  is  greater  than 
I  can  bear!" 

Morning  broke— a  dull  December  morning,  lowering^ 
bleak,  and  overcast.  With  its  first  sickly  dawn,  Estella's 
husband  left  the  house,  entered  a  cab  waiting  at  the  door, 
and  joined  his  friend  Waldron.  The  order  was  "  Wee- 
hawken  Ferry,"  and  the  carriage  whirled  rapidly  away 
through  the  fluttering  snow  and  wailing  wind. 

And  the  hours  sped  on,  i  .1  Estella  never  stirred.  Worn 
out  at  last — worn  out  in  body  and  mind,  in  heart  and  soij 
— the  poor  little  girl- wife  had  fallen  asleep,  as  condemned 
men  have  slept  the  hour  before  hanging. 

She  woke  with  a  start  long  past  noon,  for  the  duh, 
wintery  afternoon  was  darkening  already.  She  awoke  and 
sat  up,  with  a  confused  sense  of  voices  in  her  ear.  The 
door  of  her  room  was  ajar,  and  the  voices  came  from  the 
passage  without. 

**  ^d  I  say  it's  a  shame,  ? nd  a  burning  shame!"  ex' 
claimed  the  indignant  tones  of  the  head  house-maid,  **  foi 
that  old  prying  cat  of  a  housekeeper  to  be  there  orderin| 


estella's  husband. 


229 


us  about  as  if  she  was  mistress,  and  Mr.  Bartram's  own  wif  j 
knowing  nothing  about  it  I  If  poor  Mr.  Bartram  dies — and 
goodness  knows  he  looks  like  a  dead  man  now — I  wonde  • 
how  she'll  ever  face  missis  again?'* 

**  Well,"  said  kitchen  damsel  number  two,  **  1  don'  c 
know,  of  course,  but  they  do  say — Louise  and  them — that 
it  is  all  missis'  own  fault.  Master  caught  her  a-kissing  of 
Mr.  Robert  Bartram  in  the  drawing-room  last  night,  and 
master  knocked  him  down,  and  Louise  says  they've  been 
and  fought  a  duel.  Master  never  asked  for  missis,  you 
know,  Susan,  when  they  carried  him  upstairs,  and  he  was 
able  to  speak  then.  My  opinion  is,  Mrs.  Bartram  ain't  no 
better  nor  she'd  oughter  be.  These  sly  ones  never  is.  Still 
water  runs  deep." 

The  girl  stopped  aghast,  for  there,  before  her,  like  » 
ghost  new  risen,  stood  her  young  mistress. 

**What  is  it,  Susan?"  she  asked,  hoarsely.  **  Is  Mr. 
Bartram  hurt?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am — that  is  to  say,  no  ma'am — at  least  not 
very  badly,  I  hope,"  stammered  the  girl,  recoiling. 

**  Where  is  he?" 

**  In  the  red  room,  ma'am;  but,  oh,  if  you  please,  yow 
are  not  to  go  there!  Mrs.  Hamilton  told  me  the  doctor 
ordered  it " 

But  Estella  pushed  her  aside  and  went  straight  on,  hex 
white  face  settling  into  rigid  calm.  The  worst  had  come, 
then;  her  terrible  fears  were  realized.  In  one  instant  of 
time  the  frightened,  irresolute  girl  was  changing  into  the 
resolute  woman — the  determined  wife. 

She  walked  straight  to  the  red  room,  the  sumptuous 
guest-chamber  of  the  house.  She  opened  the  closed  door, 
and  stood  for  a  second  or  two  in  the  threshold. 

The  room  was  darkened.  Around  the  stately  bed  were 
gathered  the  family  doctor,  Mr.  Waldron  and  Mrs.  Ham- 
nton. 

She  closed  the  door,  and  came  gliding  forward,  noiseless, 
colorless  as  a  spirit,  with  wild,  wide  eyes. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  rose  up,  with  a  low,  angry  cry. 

**  You  here!"  she  said.  **  This  is  no  place  for  you.  I 
told  them  to  keep  you  away.  Mr.  Bartram  is  ill--dying, 
perhaps.     Go!" 

"I  will  not  go!  If  my  husband  is  ill — is  dying — my 
place  is  by  his  side.     I  will  never  leave  it  until  he  drives 


¥'' 


^y 


I- 1 

1  ' ! 


w 


230 


estella's  husband. 


klHIl  llli 


111 


me  away  himself.     No  earthly  power  shall  make  me!    Do 
you  go,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  give  place  to  me,  his  wife  I" 

The  brown  eyes  lifted,  and  looked  full,  and  straight,  and 
dauntless  into  the  astounded  housekeeper's  face.  Then 
she  bent  over  the  bed,  knelt  down  beside  it,  and  kissed  the 
death-cold  face.  Rigid,  marble-cold,  marble-white,  Alwyn 
Bartram  lay,  the  faint  breath  scarce  stirring  between  the 
bloodless  lips. 

**  My  love — my  love!'*  the  girl  murmured,  softly;  '*  .1 
may  kiss  you  now.  Oh,  my  darling,  if  I  might  only  dia 
for  you!'* 

The  inexpressible  pathos  of  the  few  simple  words  wen*- 
straight  to  the  hearts  of  the  two  men.     But  the  house 
keeper's  eyes  blazed  angrily. 

*'  Will  you  allow  this?''  she  said,  in  a  fierce  whisper, 
"  you,  doctor — you,  Mr.  Waldron!  You  both  know  wha^' 
has  transpired — what  she  has  done.  If  Mr.  Bartram  dies, 
she  is  his  murderess!    How  dare  she  come  into  the  room?' 

**  Hush!"  exclaimed  George  Waldron,  sternly.  **  Her 
right  is  first  and  best,  until  the  man  whose  wife  she  has 
been  chooses  to  dismiss  her.  IShe  shall  stay;  her  claim 
here  is  sacred.     She  has  been  Alwyn  Bartram's  wife." 

Estella  lifted  her  drooping  face,  and  held  out  one  slen 
der  hand. 

**  You  are  very  good  to  me,  Mr.  Waldron.  Some  day  \ 
will  thank  you;  I  can  not  now." 

The  pale,  tearless  young  face  drooped  again,  and  lay  in 
one  clay-cold  hand  of  the  man  she  loved.  One  whispered 
sentence  more  she  spoke  without  looking  up. 

"  Will  he  die?" 

**  I  hope  not — I  believe  not,"  answered  the  doctor, 
"  with  unceasing  care  and  tender  nursing;  and  he  will 
have  both  noio,  I  know.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  you  need  not 
resign  your  post,  Mrs.  Bartram  is  young  and  inexperienced; 
she  will  merely  be  assistant  nurse." 

Half  an  hoiir  later  Mr.  Waldron  and  the  doctor  left  the 
darkened  and  hushed  house  together,  and  walked  arm  m. 
arm  down  the  street. 

**  That  girl  is  the  victim  of  some  foul  conspiracy  on  thr 
part  of  Eobert  Bartram,"  George  Waldron  said,  euphatic 
ally.     "That  fellow  is  cold-blooded  enough  and  devilisl' 
enough  for  any  earthly  crime.     If  an  angel  were  to  de 
seend  and  tell  me  she  was  gliilty,  I  would  tell  that  angel  tf 


istella's  husband. 


231 


^0  hang!  Guilt  never  looked  at  mortal  man  out  of  such  a 
pair  of  innocent^  sorrowful  eyes  as  she  lifted  to  me  half 
An  hour  ago." 

"  Alwyn  Bartram,  at  least,  believes  in  her  guilt,"  said 
the  doctor.  **  He  told  me  her  own  lips  had  confirmed  it 
Poor  little  soul!  she  is  little  better  than  a  child,  and  she 
always  loved  the  fellow  a  thousand  times  better  than  he 
deserved.  If  he  were  not  dying,  or  next  door  to  it,  1 
would  say  it  served  him  right.     He  has  neglected  that 

Eretty  little  wife  from  the  first  for  that  boid-faced  beauty, 
leonie  Rutherford. " 


«< 


What  a  sensation  our  little  affair  will  create,  to  be 
sure!"  Mr.  Waldron  said,  lighting  a  cigar.  **  The  avenue 
will  be  more  exercised  over  it  than  it  has  been  for  a  month 
of  Sundays.  The  two  Bartrams  will  be  the  lions  of  the 
day.  Pity  one  is  too  ill,  after  his  bullet  through  the  lungs, 
and  the  other  too  far  fled  to  enjoy  it.  A  duel  in  these 
days  of  prosaic  humdrum  is  really  refreshing — a  step  back- 
ward into  the  realms  of  romance.  I  told  Alwyn  Bartram, 
this  morning  that  I  thought  he  was  an  idiot  for  his  pains, 
and  1  think  so  still.    Fancy  standing  up  at  day  dawn,  a  tar- 

?;et  for  Robert  the  Devil,  getting  a  ball  through  his  left 
ang,  and  all  for — what?" 

*'  He's  a  dangerous  scoundrel,  that  Robert  Bartram,*' 
tibserved  the  doctor.  *'  There  was  deadly  murder  in  his 
eye  this  morning  if  ever  it  was  in  mortal  man's.  An 
inch  lower,  and  that  ball  would  have  gone  straight 
ihrough  his  cousin's  heart.  As  it  is,  we'll  bring  him 
iound;  that  little  wife  will  nurse  him  back  to  health  if 
earthly  woman  can  do  it." 

"  And  get  quietly  divorced  for  her  pains  as  soon  as  her 
idol  recovers,  you'll  see,"  said  George  Waldron.  '*  And 
now,  au  revoir!  What  a  catechism  your  patients  will  put 
you  through,  doctor,  about  this!  I'll  step  up  to-morrow 
morning  and  see  how  Bartram  fares,  poor  devil!  Until 
then—'' 

The  two  men  parted  to  meet  again  next  day  by  the  bed- 
side of  their  mutual  friend.  They  found  the  wounded  man 
as  death-like  and  motionless  as  ever,  and  Estella  sitting 
alone  In  the  room  wan  and  worn  as  some  little  spirits  of 
the  moonlight. 

**  So  the  head  nurse  deserts  her  post,  and  the  little  as* 


1  I 


232 


estella's  husband. 


II 


iiiim  I 


<» 


t( 


sistant  has  it  all  to  herself/'  observed  the  doctor,  with  a 
smile.     **  I  thought  as  much.     Where  is  Mrs.  Hamilton?" 
**  Gone  to  bed." 
Have  you  sat  up  all  night  alone?" 

Only  since  two  o'clock;  I  begged  Mrs.  Hamilton  to 
retire.     She  was  falling  asleep  in  her  chair." 

"Humph!  And  our  patient?  lint  I  suppose  he  has 
scarcely  stirred.  Well,  it  is  fortunate  for  hiin  lie  has  his 
devoted  little  wife  to  watch  over  him.  I  wouldn't  give  a 
fillip  for  his  chance  of  existence  left  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  Mrs.  Hamilton.  His  life  lies  in  your  sleepless  care, 
Mrs.  Bartram;  see  that  you  bring  him  round." 

Estella  gave  him  a  grateful  glance  out  of  her  great,  sor- 
rowful brown  eyes,  and  stooping,  kissed  one  of  the  coldj 
( if eless  hands. 

*'  I  will  do  my  best,"  she  said,  simply.  **  I  would  die  to 
save  him  an  hour's  pain." 

And  so  by  the  bedside  of  her  unconscious  husband  Es- 
tella's days  and  nights  were  spent  now.  There  never  was 
A  nurse  half  so  devoted;  she  seemed  to  live  without  eating 
or  sleeping;  his  every  want  was  anticipated;  the  slightest 
direction  of  the  physician  was  never  forgotten. 

She  grew  thinner  than  a  shadow,  more  bloodless  than  a 
ghost;  out  she  never  faltered  at  her  post.  Day-time  and 
night-time  you  found  her  there,  sleepless  and  unwearying. 

**  She  said  she  would  die  to  save  him,"  George  Waldron 
exclaimed,  **  and  she  is  doing  it  now.  She  will  save  his 
Jif e,  but  she  will  kill  herself. " 

The  death-like  stupor  of  the  wounded  man  had  passed, 
and  fever  and  delirium  set  in.  The  handsome  face  was 
flushed  burning  red,  the  dark  eyes  wildly  glittering,  the 
wandering  tongue  running  at  random. 

And  Estella's  reward  for  all  her  sublime  self-abnegation 
was  to  sit  by  that  delirious  sick-bed  and  hear  the  husband 
she  idolized  rave  unceasingly  of  his  lost  idol. 

**  Leonie!  Leonie!"  was  the  changeless  burden  of  his 
'3ry. 

The  present  was  a  blank;  his  brief  wedded  life  was  blot- 
ted out;  the  happy  days  when  Leonie  De  Montreuil  was  his 
plighted  wife  were  lived  over  again. 

He  mistook  his  pale,  watchful  wife  for  his  brilliant, 
:'alse  lady-love.  He  called  her  al'  biie  endearing  names.  He 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


233 


woald  take  his  food,  his  drink,  his  medicine  from  no  han^ 
but  hers. 

**  Love  me,  Leonie!  Be  true  to  me!"  was  his  cry.  **  Oif , 
my  darJing,  no  one  will  ever  love  you  again  as  1  do!" 

And  Mrs.  Hamilton's  malicious  eyts  would  gleam  tri- 
umphantly upon  the  tortured  face  of  the  devoted  young 
wife,  whose  womanly  martyrdom  was  so  sublimely  en- 
dured. 

*'  When  fever  is  in,  truth  is  out,"  she  said,  spitefully, 
one  day.     "Pity  he  can  not  forget  his  only  love!* 

But  this  phase  passed,  too,  and  life,  and  strength,  and 
reason  began  to  return  to  the  wounded  man.  He  opened 
his  eyes  one  day  after  a  long,  healthful  sleep,  and  fixed 
them  full  upon  the  face  of  Estella,  no  longer  burning  with 
fever,  but  calm  md  clear.  An  instant  later,  and  she  had 
shrunk  away  from  sight,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  bendinpr 
over  him  in  her  place. 

"  Water,"  he  said,  feebly. 

And  the  housekeeper  held  a  cooling  draught  to  his  lips. 

*'  I  have  been  ill,"  he  said,  in  the  same  faint  tones 
"  Have  I  been  long — " 

"  Nearly  three  weeks,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  answered,  suave- 
ly. '*  But  you  are  quite  out  of  danger  now,  dear  Mr.  Bar« 
tram. " 

**  I've  been  in  danger,  then?"  slowly.  "  I  remember  in 
alL     And  he — where  is  Robert  Bartram?" 

**  No  one  knows.     He  has  fled." 

"  And  you  have  been  my  nurse  all  these  weeks,  Mra 
Hamilton,  you  alone?" 

The  dark  eyes  looked  full  and  steadily  into  hers,  as  he 
asked  the  question. 

**  Certainly — 1  have  been  your  nurse.  It  was  the  least 
I  could  do  for  my  kind  friend,  surely." 

**  And  no  one  else?  I  thought  1  saw  another  face  a  mo- 
ment ago,  Estella's." 

**  All  your  imagination,  dear  Mr.  Bartram,"  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton said,  smoothly.  *'  But  supposing  you  did  see  her, 
what  then?    Hers  is  surely  the  best  right  here." 

"  She  has  no  right  here,"  Alwyn  Bartram  replied, 
slowly  and  steadily.  '  *  You  must  know  that  by  this  time, 
Mrs.  Hamilton.  No  greater  cheat  or  hypocrite  ever  lived 
than  she  has  been  to  me.  No  poor  fool  was  ever  more 
egregiously  duped  than  I  have  been  duped  by  her.     I  will 


\% 


li  1 


i  ! 


234 


estella's  husbakd. 


never  see  her,  never  speak  to  her  again  while  I  livt.    ] 
never  loved  her.     I  have  good  reason  to  hate  her  now. " 

Dead  silence  fell.  The  effort  of  speaking  had  exhausted 
him.  Mrs.  Hamilton  glanced  sideways  at  her  victim- 
Even  her  hard  woman's  heart  might  afford  to  pity  that  vic- 
tim now. 

But  Estella  was  cowering  down  on  the  floor,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands,  never  speaking,  never  stirring.  Like 
CfBsar,  when  her  time  came  he  could  "  cover  her  face  and 
4ie  with  dignity." 

Alwyn  Bartram  spoke  again. 

"  Is  she  here?"  he  asked — "  still  in  this  house?" 

"She  is." 

**  Well,  no  one  has  a  better  right — the  house  is  her  own 
Only  tell  her  from  me  to  keep  out  of  this  room  until ) 
am  able  to  leave  it.  It  is  all  hers,  but  I  will  linger  beneath 
her  roof  no  longer  than  I  can  help.  1  resign  her  and  her 
fortune  together — only  tell  her  to  keep  out  of  my  sight  while 
1  must  reiixain." 

"'  She  shall  hear  it,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  said,  in  a  subdued 
tone.  '*  Pray  don't  excite  yourself,  Mr.  Bartram.  Don't 
talk  any  more.     Try  to  sleep  if  you  can." 

**  If  I  can,"  he  repeated,  in  a  low,  bitter  voice.  *'  If  k 
•ould  sleep  and  never  awake  it  would  indeed  be  well." 

But  he  dropped  asleep  even  with  the  words  on  his  lips- 
And  Mrs.  Hamilton  turned  to  the  crouching  figure  on  the 
floor,  with  a  touch  of  compassion  on  her  hard  face. 

"  You  had  better  go,  Mrs.  Bartram,  before  he  awakes 
again.  In  his  present  state  the  sight  of  you  might  bo 
fatal." 

She  arose  at  once,  and  turned  a  face  so  awfully  corpse-like 
— eyes  so  glazed  and  blinded — upon  the  housekeeper  that 
the  worthy  woman  recoiled  from  her  as  from  an  apparition. 

"  Good  Heaven!  she  looks  as  though  she  were  in  a  fit. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Bartram — " 

'*  I  am  going,"  Estella  said,  hoarsely.  **  I  will  never 
eome  back." 

She  staggered — literally  staggered — from  the  room  as 
shs  spoke,  grasping  blindly  at  the  objects  in  her  way.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  went  on  to  her  own  room. 
Not  once  had  she  looked  at  him  on  her  way. 

The  day  wore  on.  As  night  fell,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  fidgety 
and  uneasy,  went  herself  to  Mrs.  Bartram's  room.     The 


ebtella's  husband. 


235 


ftoor  was  locked  upon  the  inside.  She  rapped,  and  it  was 
opened  at  once  by  Estella  herself. 

**  Dear  Mrs.  Bartram,  1  have  been  so  anxious!  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  looking  better  than  when  you  left  ine.  But 
you  have  eaten  nothing  hardly  all  day,  and  dinner  is  ready. 
Will  you  not  come  do'vn? *' 

**  No;  be  good  enough  to  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and 
dine  alone/' 

The  door  was  closed  and  relocked.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
shrugged  her  broad  shoulders,  and  descended  with  a  very 
good  appetite;  and  Estella,  left  alone,  lighted  the  gas,  drew 
writing  materials  before  her,  and,  with  a  face  fixed  in 
etony  calm  and  a  hand  that  never  faltered,  she  wrote  these 
lines: 

"  1  heard  all  you  said  to  Mrs.  Hamilton — 1  was  in  the 
w)om  at  the  time.  You  never  loved  me — you  hate  me  now 
--living  or  dead,  you  never  wish  to  look  upon  my  wicked, 
sreacherous  face  again.  Well,  you  never  shall;  be  at  rest, 
t  will  trouble  you  no  more.  To-night  I  leave  you  forever. 
,1.  have  only  one  word  to  say  to  you — the  last  I  will  ever  say 
Xo  you — J  am  innocent.  You  will  not  believe  it — you 
k/iay  never  know  the  truth — but  I  loved  you — 1  will  love 
you  to  my  dying  day,  and  I  am  innocent.  May  the  good 
God  bless  you  and  make  you  happy!  I  will  pray  for  you 
us  long  as  I  live. 

**  Estella." 

That  was  all.  No  tear  fell  upon  the  paper  as  she  wrote; 
the  inward  anguish  was  too  deep.  She  folded  her  note, 
gealed  it,  addressed  it,  then  kneib  down  by  her  bed,  and 
laid  her  poor,  pale  face  thereon,  as  if  she  never  cared  o 
lift  it  again. 

The  hours  of  the  night  wore  away — the  house  grew  very 
still.  Long  after  midnight — so  long  that  the  first  bleak 
gray  of  the  December  morning  was  lighting  the  black 
night  sky — she  lifted  her  head  and  arose.  Her  hat  and  man. 
tie  lay  near.  She  put  them  on,  took  up  a  little  bundle  she 
had  made,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

One  backward  glance  she  gave — one  long,  lingering  hear!;  • 
broken  glance. 

*^  Good-bye,"  she  said,  "  my  pretty  room,  where  I  was 
once  so  happy!" 

She  opened  the  door  i^nd  went  out;  the  stillness  of  the 


ii 


'■  ■ !  [ 


-I 


m 


estella's  husband. 


|lt*«»j'i 


^rave  reigned.  Noiselessly  she  flitted  down  the  wide,  car- 
peted stairway — uoisejossly  she  gained  the  front  door— 
noiselessly  she  opened  it,  and  faced  the  raw,  bleak,  wintery 
day  dawn.  An  instant  later,  and  it  had  closed  behind  her, 
and  she  was  fluttering  away,  a  lonely  little  waif  in  the  bitter 
blast. 

For  the  second  time  Estella  had  fled — for  the  second 
time  a  desolate  wanderer,  wrecl^ed  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SWIFT    RETRIBUTION". 

Mbs.  Hamilton  passed  a  very  uneasy  nir'it.  Whether 
•:  was  remorse  for  the  past,  or  apprehensic  for  the  future, 
*^r  a  heavy  dinner  undigested,  no  one  knows;  but  worrying 
breams  made  her  pillow  restless.  The  pale,  sorrowful  face 
<«.!  Alwyn  Bartram's  wife  haunted  those  restless  slumbers 
like  a  reproachful  ghost.  Once  she  saw  her,  lying  cold 
and  still  in  her  winding-sheet  and  coffin,  and  at  her  ap- 
proach the  corpse  had  arisen,  the  large  dark  eyes  had 
*)pened,  and  the  livid  lips  parted  in  awful  words.  "**  Look 
ji  me  I'*  those  dead  lips  said.  '*  I  am  what  you  have 
made  me,  Mrs.  Hamilton!"  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  started 
^p  in  boa  in  a  panic  of  mortal  apprehension,  the  cold 
4rops  standing  on  her  brow.  It  was  broad  morning — the 
lull  December  daylight  filled  the  room. 

"  Good  Heaven!*'  the  housekeeper  thought,  **  if  anything 
aas  happened  to  that  unfortunate  little  creature  what  will 
become  of  us?  She  looked  last  night  like  a  galvanized 
corpse.     1  will  go  to  her  room  at  once.'* 

She  threw  on  her  dressing-gown,  thrust  her  feet  into 
slippers,  and  sought  Estella's  chamber.  She  tapped — there 
was  no  answer;  she  turned  the  handle — the  door  opened  at 
once,  and  she  went  in. 

The  chamber  was  empty — the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in 
all  night.  On  the  table  lay  the  letter.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
ponnced  upon  it  immediately,  saw  the  address,  and  guessed 
the  truth. 

"She  has  run  away — that  wretched  child!  What,  in 
Heaven's  name,  will  she  be  mad  enough  to  do.'*" 

The  gummed  flap  of  the  envelope  was  still  wet.  With- 
out an  instant's  hesitation  Mr.  Bartram's  high-bred  house- 
keeper opened  it  and  read  the  letter  from  first  to  last. 


estella's  husband. 


2»{ 


"Gonel"  she  thought,  palpitating  in  utter  dismay: 
•*  tied!  that  grown-up  child,  as  ignorant  of  the  vice  and 
misery  of  this  great  city  as  a  new-born  babe!  Oh,  what  on 
earth  will  become  of  her?  Mad  |irl!  and  yet  one  can 
hardly  blame  her.  I  will  take  this  letter  to  Alwyn  Bar- 
tram  at  once. " 

She  placed  it  in  the  envelope,  closed  it  securely,  and  hur- 
ried into  the  sick  man's  room,  her  sallow  complexion  dea^ 
green  with  terror. 

The  night-nurse  was  asleep  at  her  post;  the  patient  lay 
iride  awake,  his  great,  haggard,  dark  eyes  looking  unnat- 
urally lar      and  bright  out  of  his  pallid,  shadowy  face. 

'*  xo  .le  awake,  Mr.  Bartram,"  the  housekeeper  said, 
approaching;  **  not  very  long,  I  hope?  How  did  you  pass 
the  night?'* 

**  Much  as  usual,"  wearily.  **  What  haa  happened^ 
Mrs.  Hamilton?    From  whom  is  that  letter?" 

**  From  your  wife,  I  fear.  1  found  it  in  her  room  this 
morning — the  room  deserted — the  bed  unslept  in.  I  don't 
wish  to  alarm  you,  Mr.  Bartram,  but  1  greatly  fear  she  is 
gone. " 

**  Gone!"  the  large,  dark  eyes  opened  larger  and  darker. 
'*  Gone!"  he  repeated,  slowly;  "  gone  where?" 

**  Fled — run  away — gone  for  good.  1  regret  to  tell  you 
she  was  in  this  room  yesterday,  and  overheard  every  word 
you  said  to  me.  She  is  highly  sensitive,  and  that  may 
nave —  But  if  you  feel  strong  enough,  perhaps  you  had 
better  read  the  letter.     Doubtless  it  will  explain. " 

She  handed  it  to  hiin,  and  he  tore  it  open  in  fierce  haste. 
An  Instant,  and  he  read  it  through. 

It  was  impossible  for  his  death-white  face  to  grow  ^y 
whiter,  but  an  awful,  rigid  change  came  over  it  H!e 
dropped  the  letter,  and  turned  upon  the  woman, 

"  When  did  you  find  this?" 

**  Just  now — this  instant — 1  came  directly  here  1  have 
been  uneasy  about  Mrs.  Bartram  all  night — so  uneasy  I 
could  not  rest,  and  I  went  to  her  room  the  first  thmg  this 
morning.  I  found  the  room  deserted,  as  1  tell  you,  and  this 
on  the  table.  I  feared  something  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Bartram. 
\  never  saw  such  a  look  on  any  human  face  as  I  saw  on  hers 
last  night — poor  little  soul!" 

There  was  real  compassion  ia  the  housekeeper's  tone. 


I: 


?d8 


estella's  husband. 


For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  perhaps,  she  knew  what  ';>  if9M 
to  feel  remorse. 

**  The  look  on  her  face  as  1  saw  her  last  will  haunt  me 
to  my  dying  day,"  she  said,  softly;  "  if  the  human  heart 
am  break,  1  think  your  words  broke  hers  last  night.'* 

"  B'or  God's  sake,  gol"  Alwyn  Bartram  cried,  hoarsely, 
passionately.  **  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad?  We  will 
find  her — we  iiiust  find  her     Go,  I  tell  you— go!" 

*'  I  am  going,  sir,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  responded,  with  dig- 
nity. *'  And  here  is  your  friend,  Mr.  Waldron — will  you 
admit  Jiitn  ?" 

**  He  will  admit  me,"  Mr.  Waldron  said,  very  gravely, 
coming  forward,  "  for  I  have  news  he  will  be  glad  to  hear. 
Will  you  kindly  leave  us,  Mrs.  Hamilton?" 

Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  curiously  at  him^  but  his  face  was 
s;rave  and  impenetrable. 

*'  News  he  will  be  glad  to  hear,"  she  thought,  sweeping 
out;  "  what  can  it  be?  Has  he  found  the  little  runaway, 
and  already?" 

Mr.  Waldron  bent  over  the  bed,  and  looked  at  his  friend. 
It  was  his  first  visit  for  over  a  week.  A  telegram  had  taken 
him  suddenly  out  of  town — he  had  only  just  returned,  and 
still  wore  his  traveling  suit. 

**  No  better,  Alwyn?"  he  said.  '*  You  look  almost 
worse  than  when  I  left.  But  I  have  news  for  you,  old  boy, 
that  will  heal  every  wound — great  news — glorious  news!  I 
come  to  restore  you  a  wife  and  a  fortune!" 

Alwyn  Bartram  stared  at  him  with  wild,  questioning 
eyes.  The  same  idea  flashed  through  his  mind  as  through 
Mrs.  Hamilton's — he  had  found  Estella.     But  the  fortune? 

**  I  have  been  out  of  town  for  the  past  week,  Alwyn," 
he  saH,  taking  a  seat  by  the  bedside;  '*  do  you  know  where 
and  at  whose  summons?  You  would  never  guess.  At 
Robert  Bartram's." 

Still  Alwyn  did  not  speak — he  lay  blankly  gazing — blank- 
ly wondering. 

**  And  Robert  Bartram  is  dead!  Do  you  hear,  Alwyn? — 
dead  and  buried!    His  earthly  mischief  is  over  at  last." 

*  *  Dead !" — he  lay  d  ully  staring  at  his  friend.  *  *  Dead !" 
he  repeated,  in  hopeless  amaze. 

**  Dead,  poor  fellow!  One  can  pity  the  dead,  you  know 
and  a  terrible  death,  too.     He  was  burned  alive." 


estella's  husband. 


2SI 


Alwyn  Bartram  uttered  one  faint  exclamation  of  horror, 
then  lay  perfectly  still — waiting. 

**  1  found  him  in  Washington,"  Mr.  Waldron  said,  rap- 
idly: "  he  made  for  the  capital  when  he  left  hero.  And 
his  death  was  heroic  enough — a  tenement  house  in  flames, 
a  child  forgotten  in  an  upper  room.  You  know  what  a 
reckless,  impulsive  fellow  he  always  was — ho  rushed  through 
the  flames  and  smoke  to  the  rescue  of  the  screaming  child. 
Both  perished — the  burning  roof  fell  upon  them.  The 
child  was  stone  dead  when  drawn  out  from  the  flaming 
debris— Uohert  Bartram  was  still  alive.  He  lingered  long 
•nough  to  telegraph  for  me — to  do  one  act  of  justice  befo;^ 
life  left  him.  I  saw  him  laid  in  the  grave  day  before  yeste*^ 
day,  and  hastened  here  at  express  speed  with  his  dying  d^ 
position.  Alwyn  Bartram,  as  soon  as  you  are  able,  go  dowx 
on  your  bended  knees  and  ask  your  wife's  pardon.  She  tk 
the  most  wronged  and  most  innocent  of  women. " 

He  looked  for  some  expression  of  eagerness,  of  deligh);, 
but  none  came.  The  sick  man's  pallid  face  turned  abso- 
lutely livid  as  he  listened.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  only  a 
dry,  rattling  sound  came  from  his  parched  lips. 

"  Here  are  the  dead  man's  dying  words — written  by  me 
— duly  signed  and  witnessed — the  last  words  he  ever  ut- 
tered.    The  deposition  is  brief;  shall  1  read  it  aloud?" 

There  was  a  faint  answering  motion ;  the  power  of  speech 
seemed  paralyzed  in  Alwyn  Bartram. 

Mr.  Waldron  drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket, 
opened  it  at  once,  and  began  to  read : 


ti 


When  you  see  this,  Alwyn  Bartram,"  it  abruptly  began, 
'*  1  will  be  in  my  grave — beyond  the  reach  of  your  pardon 
or  your  curse.  The  first  I  do  not  ask — the  second  I  do  not 
fear.  1  die  as  I  have  lived — dreading  neither  man  nor 
devil  -"Reckless  Robert  to  the  last.  But  I  want  to  do  one 
poor  little  girl  an  act  of  justice — the  only  mean  or  pitiful 
act  of  my  life  was  wronging  her.  But  it  was  to  wreak  venge- 
ance on  you.  I  stood  in  your  debt,  my  good  cousin,  for 
many  an  old  grudge,  and  through  her  I  wiped  them  out. 
The  deed  of  a  coward  and  a  poltroon,  was  it  not?  I  have 
been  ashamed  to  look  my  own  face  in  the  glass  ever  since, 
by  Jove!  and  1  don't  think  I  could  rest  easy  in  my  grave 
Tvith  my  story  untold. 
.     '  Well,  then,  Alwyn.  Estella  is  innocent — innocent  as 


1^  1 


■ 


rrrff. 


2iO 


E8TKLLA*8    HUSBAND. 


those  angels  our  mothers  told  us  about  in  the  days  lon^^ 
ago  when  we  were  iiuiocent,  too.  Slio  never  was  my  wife: 
never  for  a  moment,  1  swear  it  I  She  alwavs  feared  anil 
deteBted  me,  and  she  lovod  yon — you  ungrateful  beggarl 
with  her  whole  good  little  heart,  as  no  man  alive  that  evei* 
J  knew  deserved  to  bo  loved  yet. 

"  The  way  of  it  was  this.  Old  Peter  Fisher — hang  h'lk, 
the  miserly  old  screw — got  a  letter  from  Miss  Helen  3Ial- 
lory,  of  Chelsea,  saying  that  Estella's  father  had  turned  up 
— was  a  millionaire,  lawfully  wedded  to  her  sister  Estella, 
anxious  to  claim  his  daughter  and  heiress,  and  ready  to  pay 
all  buck-standing  debts  contracted  for  her;  come  down 
like  a  prince,  in  fact.  Old  Peter  Fisher  sends  for  mo. 
*  Look  here,  Roysten,^  says  the  old  hypocrite — I  was  Roy 
sten  Darrell,  the  smuggler  captain,  then — *  let's  make  »» 
good  thing  of  this.  Let's  marry  Estella;  then  her  husband 
claims  his  share  of  his  rich  father-in-law's  wealth.  You'i-e 
young  and  clever  and  good  looking,*  says  Peter;  *  what's  to 
hinder  your  marrying  her,  Roysten,  my  boy,  and  sharing  the 
spoil  with  me?'  '  Nothing,'  says  1,  '  but  that  she  hates  me 
like  poison.  She'll  never  do  it,  you'll  see.'  *  We  will  make 
her,'  says  he;  *  it  will  go  hard  with  us  if  you  and  I  are  not 
a  match  for  one  little  girl.  I'll  make  her  marry  you,  or 
I'll  know  the  reason  why.'  Well,  1  was  willing;  a  wife 
more  or  less,  seeing  1  had  a  couple  of  dozen  already,  made 
little  odds  to  me.  I  was  willing  and  1  said  so.  Old  Peter 
Fisher  broke  the  news  to  Essie.  As  I  said,  there  wa« 
the  dickens  to  pay  immediately.  Essie  protested  sha 
wouldn't;  she  would  cHe  first,  and  so  on.  We  didn't  believe 
her,  but,  by  George,  she  meant  it!  A  chap  there,  in  Rock- 
ledge — a  friend  of  hers,  who  had  never  told  his  love  but  let 
concealment  prey  upon  his  damask  cheek — brought  her 
some  books  that  evening.  She  told  her  story  to  him;  told 
him  she  had  no  avenue  of  escape,  and  he  took  heart  of 
grace,  and  proposed  one  immediately.  Let  her  marry  hirn 
to  escape  me.  Well,  she  hated  me;  she  rather  liked  him, 
poor  imbecile! — she  saw  no  other  way  out  of  her  difficulties, 
and  she  consented.  They  arranged  it  all — they  were  to 
elope  a  few  nights  after,  get  married  on  the  quiet,  and 
snap  their  fingers  at  Peter  Fisher  and  Roysten  Darrell. 
Would  you  believe  it?  1  was  in  hiding  near  by,  and  heard 
every  word.  The  night  arrived — dark  and  rainy — the  car- 
riage was  waiting  for  the  brid«»  and  so  was  1 — the  other 


■STRLIJk  S    HUSBAND. 


241 


bridegroom  was  safely  disposed  of.  Esiellu  cuine,  mis- 
took me  in  the  dark  for  Dick  Derwent,  and — we  were  mar- 
ried! That  is  to  say,  one  of  my  men,  of  a  theatrinil  turn, 
played  parson,  and  performed  the  ceremony,  and  I  drove 
Estella  back  to  Fisher^s  P'olly,  and  announctd  myself  as 
her  husband! 

**  Fancy  the  scene  that  followed.  The  amaze,  the  anger, 
the  hysterics.  The  girl  was  spunky— all  the  powers  of 
earth  wouldn't  compel  her  to  own  me  for  her  Inusband.  IL 
ended  in  her  being  locked  up  in  the  garret  for  her  contu- 
macy by  old  Peter  Fisher,  and  being  frightened  into  fits  by 
the  rats.  Then  followed  a  brain  fever — I  went  to  sea;  she 
had  recovered  when  1  came  back,  and  I  profjosed  a  second 
marriage,  a  public  one;  and  she  agreed  on  condition  thfrf 
I  would  release  Dick  Derwent,  whom  we  still  held  prisonei 
It  was  in  very  desperation  she  consented.  AVe  released  ov<' 
unlucky  captive,  and,  in  desperation  still,  she  tried  N 
take  her  own  life.  She  failed — she  iled — she  made  or* 
Helen  Mallory — told  her  story — had  a  second  lit  of  illne/^s 
— received  news  upon  her  recovery  that  /  was  drovvned- 
met  you,  and  what  came  after  that  you  knovv. 

**  There  is  the  story.  Why  you  did  not  hear  it  long  as") 
is  the  only  mystery;  but  it  is  certain  the  fault  of  tl- 
BGcrecy  was  the  dead  aunt's,  not  the  niece's.  Estella  lov  > 
you  devotedly;  is  true  to  you  as  the  needle  of  Jhe  Nor/h 
Star.  She  met  me  in  Union  Square,  poor,  little,  frigh* 
ened  child!  because  she  was  afraid  to  refuse — because  sl'o 
kncT  not  what  to  do  for  the  best — because  she  thought  tl  < 
ceremony  she  had  undergone  with  mo  was  a  rcil  one— b 
cause  she  feared  what  afterward  occurred  that  we  wouM 
quarrel  and  fight,  and  you,  her  precious  darling,  might. 
get  hurt.  She  was  afraid  of  you,  too;  she  knew  you  di.i 
not  love  her;  that  you  were  madly  infatuatid  about  that 
gypsy,  Leonie;  and  between  all,  the  utifi>rtuiiate  littlf^ 
creature  was  nearly  frantic.  But  she  is  your  wife— true 
and  pure  and  spotless  in  thought  and  dcod — as  high  abo'/e 
you  in  truth  and  innocence  as  heaven  is  above  theeaiui 
— a  million  times  too  good  for  her  foresworn  husband.  Get 
her  to  forgive  you,  if  you  can — though  if  she  had  an  atom 
of  spirit  she  would  see  you  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  first! 
Take  her  back,  and  take  old  Uncle  Wylder's  fortune  with 
her.  Go  to  Italy,  as  you  proposed,  and  daub  canvas  and 
waste  paint  to  the  end  of  year  days.     Forget  the  little 


I 


i  ^  ■.■;i-; 


342 


estella's  husband. 


Rutherford,  and  follow  the  maxim  of  the  copy-books:  *  B^ 
virtuou",  and  you  will  be  happy!'  Tell  Estella  1  am  sorry 
for  slandering  her — the  only  act  of  my  past  life  1  am  sorry 
for,  except,  may  be,  that  I  didn't  finish  you  while  1  was 
about  it,  and  accept  the  parting  benediction  of 

"  Robert  Bartram.  " 

George  Waldron  paused  and  grasped  his  friend's  hand 
with  a  glowing  face.   , 

**  Was  1  not  right,  Alwyn — glorious  news,  is  it  not?  By 
Jupiter!  if  I  had  the  power  1  would  canonize  Robert  le 
Diable  for  this  one  good  deed.  Upon  my  honor,  I  am  as 
glad  as  if  some  beneficient  fairy  had  left  me  Aladdin'" 
lamp.  I  always  liked  your  pretty  little  rosebud  of  a  wife 
old  boy.  I  always  knew  she  was  spotless  as  an  angel;  £ 
always  said  so;  1  felt  it  in  my  bones  from  the  first  that 
there  was  foul  play  somewhere.  Come,  rouse  up,  Alwyn 
Bartram!  Send  for  her,  poor,  little  sorrowful  soul.  Tell 
her  the  truth — go  down  into  the  valley  of  humiliation — kisp 
and  be  friends. 

But  no  answering  light  came  into  the  deathly  face  and 
dark,  dilated  eyes  of  the  sick  man. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  thrusting  Ebiella's  lettei 
into  his  friend's  hand,  **  and  tell  me  if  ever  murderer  on 
this  earth  was  more  blood-guilty  than  I." 

George  Waldron  read  the  letter  through,  and  looked  uja 
with  awfully  blank  face. 

"Gone!"  he  said;  "runaway!  1  never  thought  of  ^W/ 
And  you  really  said  those  merciless  words  in  her  hearing? 
Alwyn  Bartram,  you  have  done  a  cruel  and  shameful  thing! 
Do  you  know  that  she  has  saved  your  life — that  night  and 
day  she  was  ceaselessly  by  your  sick-bed — that  she  forgot 
to  eat  or  sleep  in  her  devoted  care  of  you?  and  the  first 
words  you  utter,  when,  under  God,  she  restores  you  to 
health,  are  the  words  that  drive  her  from  you  forever. 
Bartram,  we  read  of  *  seething  the  kid  in  its  mother's  milk  ' 
— 1  think  I  know  what  it  means  now.'' 

"  Go  on,"  Alwyn  Bartram  said.  "  I  ask  no  mercy;  I 
deserve  it  all!    But  I  believed  her  guilty. " 

"  Because  you  wished  to  believe  her  guilty — because  you 
did  not  care  enough  for  her  to  find  out  her  innocence  for 
yourself.  I  would  have  torn  it  from  Robert  Bartram 's  1^- 
mg  throat;  and  so  would  you  h»d  his  victim  been  Leonie 


'■m 


estella's  husband. 


243 


Kutherford.  But  enough  of  this.  If  that  child's  heart 
is  not  broken — and  sho  is  only  a  child,  Alwyn  Bartram — 
ii  her  brain  is  not  crazed  with  misery — if  she  has  not  rashly 
taken  her  own  life — we  will  find  her.  Poor  little  Estella! 
if  wife  ever  worshiped  her  husband,  she  worshiped  you,  and 
Terily  she  has  her  reward!" 

**  For  God's  sake,  stopl'*  the  tortured  man  passionately 
cried.  **  I  deserve  it  all,  but  I  can  not  bear  it.  Don't  try 
to  drive  me  mad?" 

George  Waldron  arose. 

"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,"  he  said.  *'  1  will  act  for 
you,  my  poor  fellow,  until  you  are  able  to  act  for  your- 
self.    We  will  find  Estella  yet." 

He  left  the  room  as  he  spoke.  And  Alwyn  Bartram 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  was  alone  with  his  death- 
less agony  of  remorse.  In  that  hour  Estella  was  avenged 
—in  that  hour  he  fought  the  bitter  battle  she  had  been  fight- 
ing so  long — in  that  hour  the  old  infatuation  for  Leonie 
Kutherford  died  out  forever  and  ever.  In  the  years  to 
come,  he  might  meet  her  daily,  hourly,  but  the  fire  was 
dead — the  black  ashes  could  never  rekindle — the  siren's 
fatal  power  was  at  an  end. 

And  the  search  began — the  search  they  thought  so  eiisy 
Ht  first. 

"  1  will  find  her  before  night,"  George  Waldron  thought 
«is  he  left  the  house;  **  she  will  not  commit  suicide;  but 
llwyn  deserves  his  fright." 

Night  came,  but  she  was  not  found.  Another  night  and 
ntill  another — and  3'et  no  clew.  The  week  came  to  an  end 
— still  no  Estella.  Another  week — a  third— always  hope- 
lessly in  vain.  Detectives  were  on  the  track— every  daily 
in  the  city  held  pathetic  entreaties  to  "  Estella  "  to  return 
— immense  rewards  were  offered — still,  still  utterly  in  vain. 

Alwyn  Bartram,  a  month  later,  left  his  sick-room — the 
pallid  shadow  of  his  darkly  handsome  self — to  join  in  that 
fruitless  quest.  Earth  held  nothing  half  so  dear  to  him 
now  as  the  hope  of  finding  his  lost  wife.  Now,  when  it 
was  too  late — the  old  story,  alas! — he  knew  what  he  had 
lost — he  saw  his  own  mad  folly  and  cruelty— -he  saw  her  su- 
blime self-sacrifice,  her  devoted  love,  her  patient,  womanly 
martyrdom  so  long  endured.  What  he  suffered — his  un- 
availmg  regret  and  remorse — was  known  only  to  HeaTen 
i»nd  himsell. 


n 


'^'t 


"744 


bstella's  husband. 


The  story  ot  the  runaway  wife  was  ringing  through  the 
«»ty— Alwyn  Bartram  waa  the  hereof  the  hour.  Every 
one  pitied  Estella  now — every  one  found  out  they  had  al- 
ways liked  her — poor,  little,  timid  creature!  Every  one 
said,  loudly,  she  had  been  shamefully  ill-used.  And  one 
after  another  the  weary  weeks  went  by,  and,  living  or 
dead,  Estella  Bartram  was  not  to  be  found. 

Alwyn  went  first  to  Chelsea,  and  sought  out  Helea 
Mallory's  old  servant,  Norah.  He  found  her  established 
in  a  little  candy  and  toy  store,  more  grim  and  resolute- 
looking  than  ever. 

**  And  so  you  have  ill-used  her,  and  she  has  run  away 
f^om  you,'*  Norah  said,  with  terrible  grimiiess.  **  Fm 
not  surprised — 1  knew  it  would  happen.  I  told  her  so; 
Lut  she  didn't  believe  me,  of  course.  But  che  hasn't  oome 
Lore,  Mr.  Bartram.  I've  never  set  eyes  on  her  since  you 
k*ook  her  away,  and  I  never  expect  to  in  this  world.  Hadn*t 
\ou  better  drag  the  rivers,  or  search  the  dead-houses?  you'll 
he  most  likely  to  find  her  there.'^ 

And  then  Norah  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  threw  her 
"»,pron  over  her  face,  and  doggedly  screened  behind  it,  re- 
fused to  utter  another  word. 

He  bore  it  all  patiently — he,  the  proud,  the  passionate — 
but  he  was  utterly  broken  down.  He  went  back  to  New 
York,  and  recommenced  the  search.  Every  means  that 
^an  could  use,  with  limitless  wealth  at  his  disposal,  he 
Lised,  and  still  vainly,  vainly. 

The  long  winter  passed,  and  only  when  the  April  buds 
<w'ere  greeti  on  the  trees  was  that  remorseful  search  given 
over  in  dull  despair. 

**  *  Living  or  dead,  I  never  wish  to  look  upon  your  face 
ftgain!'  chose  were  my  own  pitiless  words,'*  he  thought, 
with  a  bitter  groan;  **  and  living  or  dead,  1  never  will! 
The  only  being  on  earth  who  ever  loved  me  I  have  driven 
by  ray  merciless  cruelty  to  a  suicide's  grave!" 

*'  It  is  of  no  use,  Bartram,"  George  Waldron  said  to 
him,  with  a  dolorous  shake  of  the  head.  **  You  must  give 
St  up!  You  are  killing  yourself,  old  boy,  and  that  will  do 
no  good,  you  know.  Better  go  abroad,  as  you  intended 
•  -take  to  vour  easel  and  paint-brush  once  more,  and  try  to 
forget." 

'*  To  forget!" 

It  was  all  he  said,  but  George  Waldron  always  remem' 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


24£l 


bered  the  despair  of  that  haggard  face— of  that  low^  hitter 
voice;  and  he  knew  that,  until  his  dying  day,  Alwvn  Bar- 
tram  would  never  forget  the  great  trouble  of  his  lire. 

But  he  took  his  friend's  advice;  before  sunny  April  drew 
to  a  close  he  had  left  New  York  for  Italy. 

**  Estella  is  dead!"  were  his  last  words  to  his  friend  on 
the  steamer's  deck — *' Estella  is  in  heaven  I  She  never 
comitted  suicide — 1  know  that;  but  I  know  likewise,"  in 
a  tone  of  calm  conviction,  "  that  she  is  dead.  And  1 
know,George  Waldron,  that  I  am  as  much  her  murderer  as 
though  I  had  held  the  knife  to  her  throat.  If  you  ever 
send  any  kind  wishes  after  me,  let  them  be  that  my  life 
may  mercifully  close  soon!'' 


16  remem* 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   DAWN   OF  A   BRIGHTER  DAY. 

A  BRILLIANT  Spring  day  was  ending  in  a  misty  spring  even- 
ing. The  **  young  May  moon  *'  sailed  serenely  up  the  star- 
gemmed  sky,  and  the  lamps  twinkled  athwart  the  still 
streets  of  **  dull  Chelsea." 

A  soft  breeze  fluttered  the  leaves  of  the  budding  trees, 
and  the  distant  rumble  of  the  "  cars  rattling  over  the  stony 
street,"  or  the  faint,  far-off  barking  of  a  dog,  worn  the 
only  noises  to  disturb  the  placid  stillness  of  the  quiet  thor- 
oughfare where  Norah  Styles  kept  her  toy  and  candy  shop. 

It  was  after  tea  with  Norah,  and  her  little  parlor  was 
swept  and  garnished,  and  she  stood  looking  out  of  her  shop 
window  with  a  face  whose  dark  moodiness  even  three  cups 
of  the  best  ''English  breakfast  tea"  had  not  been  able 
to  remove. 

She  was  thinking  of  lost  Estella — she  very  seldom  thought 
of  any  one  else  now — thinking  in  bitter  sorrow  of  all  she 
must  have  endured,  of  her  lonely,  loveless  end.  For,  like 
Estella's  husband,  Norah  never  doubted  for  an  instant  but 
that  she  was  dead. 

*'  Drat  the  men,"  Norah  said,  vindictively — "  drat  the 
whole  of  them!  1  never  knew  a  good  one  yet — leastways 
exceptin'  some  clergymen,  an'  t/iey  were  men  that  never 
got  married,  or  thought  of  it.  Thank  the  Lord  I  kept 
clear  of  them  in  youth  and  in  age,  not  that  many  of  them 
ever  wanted  me,  but  if  they  had»  and  I  had  been  fool 


II 


Tri6 


estella's  husband. 


^M^ough  to  take  them,  I  would  have  been  a  broken-hearted, 
■jiiserable  creature  like  the  rest  long  and  many  a  day  ago. 
i  told  Miss  Helen  what  1  thought  or  that  handsome  black- 
fc'Vised  young  man.  I  told  Miss  Essie,  too.  Neither 
would  believe  me,  of  course.  Now  sea  how  it's  turned 
out!    And  theyVe  all  alike — all  alike." 

**  Men  are  deceivers  ever,*'  whether  they  mean  marriage 
or  not.  Unconsciously  Norah  was  paraphrasing  the  immor- 
tal Shakespeare — a  gentleman  of  whom  she  had  never 
heard — and  very  likely  both  were  near  the  truth. 

While  she  stood  there,  a  carrifn^e — a  private  carriage — the 
most  elegant  Norah  had  seen  for  many  a  day,  dark-blue 
and  glittering,  with  two  superb  black  horses  in  silver  har- 
ness, and  a  shining  black  coachman,  looking  like  a  dusky 
Bishop  of  Carthage — whirled  up  to  the  door.  To  tier  door 
—yes!  and  stopped,  and  a  tall  young  man  in  livery  got 
down  from  behind  and  held  open  the  door. 

A  lady  alighted — a  young  lady,  in  a  tasteful  gray  travel- 
ing-suit, lighted  up  with  brilliant  blue  ribbons,  and  a  blue 
ieather  in  the  pretty  gray  hat.  Under  this  hat  fell  a 
•hower  of  rippling  brown  ringlets,  falling  beneath  the 
,4ender,  girlish  waist. 

A  gentleman  leaned  forward  to  speak  to  her  out  of  the 

.^rriage  window — a  tall,  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  haugh- 

i:y,  handsome  patrician  face  and  silver  hair — at  first  sight 

>f  whom  Norah  Styles  staggered  back  with  a  low  cry  of 

^maze  that  was  almost  a  cry  of  horror. 

**  Call  for  me  in  half  an  hour,  papa,'*  the  young  lady 
«aid,  turning  round;  **  I  will  be  quite  ready  then." 

That  voice — that  face!  Norah  stood  perfectly  paralyzed. 
Never  on  this  earth  had  she  expected  to  hear  or  see  either 
again. 

The  carriage  whirled  away,  the  shop-door  opened,  and 
Alwyn  Bartram's  young  wife  stood  smiling  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

Yes,  Estellal  Estella,  more  fashionably  and  elegantly 
attired  than  Norah  had  ever  seen  her — Estella  in  very 
truth;  and  yet  not  the  Estella  of  old. 

Thy  shy,  wistful,  childish  look  was  gone;  this  young  lady 
seemed  eminently  self-possessed  and  self-reliant.  The  old 
bright  bloom  of  color  was  gone  too — a  fixed  and  change- 
less pallor  seemed  to  have  taken  its  place,  and  the  large 
brown  eyes  looked  at  you  with  a  sadder  beauty  than  of 


estella's  husband. 


241 


old.  Estella,  the  girl,  was  gone;  Estella,  the  woman,  the 
wronged  wife,  stood  in  the  door-way,  ten  years  older  in  as 
many  months. 

**  Dear  old  Norah!"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh;  **  how 
you  stare!  Do  you  take  me  for  a  ghost?  Shake  hands, 
and  see." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  daintily  kidded,  until  it  seemed 
like  a  piece  of  gray  marble;  and  Korah  took  it,  still  in 
that  bewildered  dream. 

'*  Wake  up,  Norah!"  Estella  said,  gayly.  "  It  is  your 
Essie  in  the  flesh — no  spirit  of  earth  or  air.  Say  some- 
thing nice  in  welcome,  for  I  have  come  a  long  way  to  see 
you,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  away  again.  Ask  me  to 
come  in  and  sit  down,  and  we  will  ttil  each  other  all  th<* 
news." 

Norah  awoke  at  last,  and  found  her  breath  and  her  voicc 
**  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Miss  Essie,  is  this  you?     An(^ 
where  do  you  come  from,  and  how  does  that  old  ioreigner 
come  to  be  here  again,  and  with  you?" 

**  That  old  foreigner!  Speak  more  respectfully  of  my 
father  and  the  Count  De  Montreuil,  if  you  please,  madame! 
Where  do  I  come  from?  That  is  what  1  want  to  tell  you, 
if  you'll  only  give  me  a  chance.  Is  that  your  boudoir  I 
see  in  there,  Norah?  Let  us  go  in  and  make  ourselves  com- 
fortable, out  of  the  way  of  your  customers.  My  father  will 
be  back  for  me  in  half  an  hour,  and  already  '  time  is  on 
the  wing.'  " 

She  drew  from  her  belt  a  little  watch,  so  thickly  studded 
with  sparkhng  gems  that  it  made  Norah  wink  again.  Be- 
wildered still,  she  led  the  way  into  the  humble  parlor,  and 
placed  her  rocking-chair — her  seat  of  honor — for  her  un- 
expected visitor. 

**  No,  no!"  said  Estella;  "  keep  your  throne  of  state  for 
yourself,  Norah,  and  I  will  sit  here  at  your  feet,  on  this 
creepie,  as  I  used  to  long  ago,  in  the  dear  old  house  in  Pop- 
lar Street.  Ah,  those  pleasant  days,  Norah,  when  you 
taught  me  to  concoct  Johnnie-cake,  and  let  me  burn  the 
bottom  out  of  your  sauce-pans  making  taffy-candy!  I 
wonder  if  my  new  life,  with  all  its  grandeur,  will  be  any 
happier  than  that?" 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  she  also  sighed.  The  fair 
young  face  in  repose  lotked  worn  and  drawn,  and  ther») 


'\ 


248 


E8TELLA  S    HUSBAIO). 


mm^ 


were  deep  lines  across  the  smooth  brow,  plowed  there  by 
the  hard  hand  of  trouble. 

**  ]^y  child!'"  Norah  said,  with  emotion;  **  do  you  know 
we  nil  thought  you  dead — all?" 

**  Yes,  1  know,'*  very  softly,  very  sadly.  **  Better  so, 
since  I  am  dead  to — to  every  one  but  you.  I  know  every- 
thing, Norah,  but  I  am  not  sorry  for  what  I  have  done. 
The  old  life  is  closed  forever — I  am  Mrs.  Bartram  no  more. 
I  am  Miss  De  Montreuil  now,  and  until  the  end  of  my  days." 

*'  My  child — my  dear  Miss  Essie — take  care!  Do  nothing 
now  you  may  repent  of  after.'* 

**  1  will  never  repent!"  She  lifted  her  head,  and  her 
face  settled  into  a  hard  look  Norah  had  never  seen  there 
before.  '*  Norah,  I  am  not  the  girl  you  knew — not  the 
happy,  hopeful,  trusting  girl  who  left  you — who  would  have 
left  the  wide  world,  and  thought  it  well  lost,  for  Alwyn 
Bartram!  I  have  done  with  hope,  and  trust,  and  faith  in 
mankind,  forever  and  ever.  I  will  be  happy,  if  I  can;  but 
never  again  with  the  happiness  that  is  gone.  1  have  been 
cruelly  and  shamefully  used,  Norah,  and  if  my  heart  has 
not  been  broken,  something  worse  has  been  done,  for  it 
has  grown  hard  and  cold  as  a  stone.  I  have  lost  something 
— heart,  conscience,  I  don't  know  what — but  I  will  never 
be  what  I  was  to  my  dying  day!" 

Her  voice  rang  out  clear  and  cold;  her  pale  face  tnrned 
rigid  as  marble;  her  eyes  looked  straight  before  her  with  ft 
hard  glitter  painful  to  see. 

**  If  they — Alwyn  Bartram  and  Roysten  Darrell — ^had 
taken  a  dagger  and  stabbed  me,  they  would  have  done  a 
less  cruel  and  dastardly  deed.  No,  Norah,  don't  speak, 
don't  advise — it  is  all  of  no  use.  I  know  everything  you 
can  tell  me,  and  more.  I  know  that  Roysten  Darrell  is 
dead;  I  know  he  told  the  truth  before  he  died;  I  know 
that  my  husband  believed  when  he  could  doubt  no  longer; 
1  know  he  has  searched  for  me  far  and  wide,  and  used 
every  means  man  could  use  to  win  me  back.  I  dare  say  he 
is  sorry  for  the  past;  I  dare  say  he  feels  remorse;  1  dare 
say  he  would  be  very  kind  and  good  to  me,  if  I  went  back. 
But  I  never  will — never — never — never!  1  tell  you  again, 
I  have  been  cruelly  and  barbarously  used,  and  I  try  to 
forgive.  I  do  forgive  both  the  dead  and  the  living;  but  I 
do  not  forget — and  I  never  will." 


istella's  husband. 


249 


*  Then  yon  do  wc'  forgive,"  said  Norah,  **  for  without 
torgecting,  forgivene&j  means  nothing." 

**  It  does  in  my  case.  I  hope  he  will  be  happy — I  hope 
so,  Norah.  I  would  make  him  happy,  if  I  could.  But  ne 
said  things  to  me — of  me — that  no  wife  could  ever  overlook. 
And  he  does  not  care  for  me — he  never  did.  There  was  not 
one  spark  of  atfection  for  me  in  his  heart  when  he  perjured 
himself  by  marrying  me.  He  loves  as  ho  can  love,  a  beau- 
tiful and  fashiotiablelady  in  New  York — a  married  woman, 
Norah — and  she  loves  him.  Do  you  think  1  would  go 
back,  knowing  all  this — knowing  that  duty  and  remorse, 
not  love,  prompted  his  search?  Go  back  and  live  with  a 
man  whose  heart  was  another  woman's — who  barely  toler- 
ated r/ie.''  Oh,  Norah!  I  am  not  proud,  and  I  love  him 
dearly — dearly — dearly.  But  to  go  back — to  be  again  his 
»vife — Norah,  I  would  die  first!" 

Her  pale  cheek  flushed,  her  dark  eyes  flashed.  She  sat 
^here,  gentle  Estella  Mallory  no  more,  but  the  haughty 
daughter  of  Count  De  Montreuil,  with  bright  Norman 
blood  beating  in  h  t  veins — the  sang  azure  of  an  old  and 
titled  race. 

*'  And  yet  you  love  him?"  Norah  said. 

*  And  yet  I  love  him,  with  a  deep  and  deathless  love,  as 
t  wiH  love  him  to  my  dying  day.  But  to  love  and  ^*loved 
are  two  different  things.  1  have  left  him,  and  forever! 
May  Lis  life  be  long  and  happy,  but  it  will  never  be  shared 
by  me.  I  have  found  my  father,  and  lie  loves  me,  Norah, 
with  a  love  that  will  know  no  change.  Why  don't  you  ask 
me  all  about  it?" 

**  1  am  waiting  to  hear." 

*'  Well,"  said  Estella,  *'  when  I  ran  away,  1  did  not 
drown  myself  or  take  poison,  as  I  fancy  many  thought.  I 
simply  left  my  husband's  house  for  the  house  of  one  of 
our  servants,  who  had  got  married  some  months  before,  to 
whom  I  had  been  kind,  and  who  1  knew  would  shelter  me 
p-nd  be  discreet.  She  was;  she  took  me  in,  treated  me 
with  a  kindness  and  delicacy  lean  never  forget,  asked  no 
questions,  and  answered  none  of  those  innumerable  adver- 
tisements concerning  me.  What  I  suffered  for  the  first  few 
months,  you  or  no  one  else  on  earth  c^n.  ever  know.  1 
>ived  through  it  all — that  is  enough.  I  haii  time  to  think 
n  those  long,  lonely  weeks,  Norah,  and  I  thought,  after 
•  11,  poor  Aunt  Helen  uught  be  mistaken  in  hei  hard  judg- 


II 


\  t 


250 


estella's  husband. 


viient  of  my  father.  At  all  events,  I  turned  to  him  in  my 
ioneliness  and  friendliness,  and — 1  wrote  him  a  letter.  I 
told  him  I  had  been  married ;  had  separated  from  my  has- 
band;  that  I  was  poor  and  alone,  and  ready  to  go  to  him,  if 
he  would  take  me.  I  told  him  no  names — 1  begged  him 
never  to  ask — my  heart  was  too  sore,  my  wouiidj  too  re- 
cent. If  he  could  take  me  as  I  was,  well  and  good;  if  not, 
then  I  must  labor  for  myseL.  I  sent  my  letter  away,  and 
waited.  An  answer  came — a  long,  loving  mswer — an- 
nouncing his  speedy  arrival  to  fetch  me  to  1*  i'ance.  He 
came,  Norah,  three  weeks  ago.  To-morrow  we  return  to 
New  York,  to  sail  immediately  for  Havre,  and — there  is 
my  story!  1  came  here  to  see  you,  to  tell  you;  but  you 
must  keep  my  secret.  All  who  knew  me  think  me  dead. 
Let  them  so  think.  Tell  no  one — not  even  Alwyn  Bartram. 
Hark!  there  is  the  carriage  returning.  Dear  old  Norah, 
4,'ood-bye!'' 

She  put  Ler  arms  round  her  neck,  with  a  dry,  tearless 
•ob,  and  clung  there. 

**  Do  you  remember  our  last  parting,  Norah?  You 
warned  me  then,  but  I  would  not  be  warned.  I  go  from 
you  again,  but  it  is  to  a  father  this  time,  not  a  bridegroom 
— andia  father's  love  is  different.'* 

**  Yes,  it  is  different,"  Norah  said,  very  sadly.     **  My 
woor  little  Essie!  God  bless  you,  my  darling,  and  make  you 
nappy,  and  keep  you  unspotted  from  the  world!" 
Good-bye,  good-bye!" 

They  were  Estella's  last  words.  Norah  stood  still.  The 
t?right  vision  in  gray  and  blue  flitted  like  a  fairy  out  into 
the  misty  moonlight;  the  tall  young  man  assisted  her  into 
the  elegant  carriage;  the  black  coachman  flourished  his 
whip,  and  the  superb  black  horses  pranced  away.  And  as 
Cinderella,  in  her  magic  chariot  and  golden  robes,  may 
have  vanished  from  the  admiring  eyes  of  her  fairy  god- 
mother, so  Estella  disappeared,  to  begin  her  new  and 
brighter  life  as  Count  De  Montreuil's  daughter  and  heiress. 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

AFTE  R    TEN     TEARS 

The  Acadefliy  of  Music  was  crowded.  The  opera  thai 
night  was  "  Robert  le  Diable,"  and  all  the  hatU-ton  of 
brilliant  New  "^C^'k  assembled  to  hear  the  Rribert  of  the 


estella's  husband. 


35^ 


evening — a  ntar  of  Earopean  celebrity — with  the  handstme« 
face  and  divinest  voice  out  of  Paradise. 

The  first  act  of  the  opera  was  almost  over,  as  a  tall,  darli , 
rather  distinguished-looking  gentleman  lounged  into  the 
stalls  and  took  up  a  bill  of  the  performance. 

His  broad  brow,  swarth  as  a  Paynim's,  darkened  percep- 
tibly as  he  read  the  name  of  the  opera,  and  he  flung  the 
harmless  strip  of  paper  down,  and  turned  his  moody  eyeg 
upon  the  audience. 

Two  young  men,  sitting  near,  attracted  his  attention. 
He  looked — ^looked  again — then  listened  involuntarily  to 
their  conversa'^ion. 

The  young  men  were  Mr.  George  Waldron,  and  a  dark  - 
eyed,  elegant  young  Frenchman,  a  Washington  attachlS 
M.  Victor  de  Launey. 

**  Is  your  Parisian  princess  here  to-night?"  Mr.  Waldron 
was  asking,  leveling  his  lorgnette  at  a  particular  boi% 
**  No,  I  Kee  her  not;  and  the  opera-house  is  a  waste  and 
howling  wilderness  to  half  the  men  present.  Will  she 
show,  I  wonder?" 

*  *  Without  doubt.     She  is  too  impassioned  a  devotee  of 

music  to  miss  hearing  M on  his  first  evening.     But  the 

goddess  of  the  night  arises  late,  and  we,  the  worshipers^, 
must  learn  patience.  Ah,  how  it  is  peerless,  how  it  is 
radiant,  the  lovely  Estellel" 

**  Stricken?"  Mr.  Waldron  said,  coolly.  "  I  thought 
as  much.  But  she's  dangerous.  Mademoiselle  De  Mont- 
reuil  and  the  goddess  Minerva  are  the  only  two  ladies  of  my 
acquaintance  born  without  that  uncomfortable  appendage— 
a  heart.  It  is  the  Princess  Frostina,  snow-white,  beautiful, 
and  snow-cold.  To  my  certain  knowledge,  she  has  re- 
fused three  of  the  most  eligible  partis  of  the  season,  during 
her  five  weeks'  campaign." 

*'  And  to  ?/)(/  certain  knowledge,  an  English  earl  and  a 
Russian  prince,  before  she  left  Paris,"  De  Launey  said, 
stroking  his  mustache.  **  It  is  marble,  7non  ami — it  is  flint 
of  the  hardest — Estelle  the  Peerless.  They  talk— thosr^ 
others — of  a  disappointment  in  early  life  as  the  cause." 

**  Ah,  bah!"  George  Waldron  said,  cynically.     "  Who 
remembers,  in  these  days,  one's  first  Icve — least  of  all,  f 
woman.     Look  at  mademoiaelle's  cousin,  Madame  Leonii 
Rutherford,   the  brilliant  little  widow;  she  was  in  lo"a 
madly,  infatuatedly,  ten  years  ago — hopelessly,  too,  sino<» 


11 


\i 


til     % 


■  l'  11/  .  ^ 


323 


estella's  husband. 


sho  was  already  a  wife,  and  he  a  husband.  She  losfc  him, 
and  look  at  her,  1  say,  to-day — the  lightest-headed,  hardest* 
hearted  flirt  that  ever  lured  men  to  destruction.  She  makes 
me  think,  egad!  of  those  weird  old  storios  of  Norse  sorcer- 
esses and  German  nixies  singing  men  to  their  fatal  doom. 
She  has  dono  the  '  iovrd-and-lost  *  business  thoroughly, 
but  she  can  cat,  drink,  and  be  merry  as  well  as  the  liintiesn 
of  us,  to-day." 

*'  Sho  may  remember,  for  all  that,"  the  Frenchman  said, 
pithily.  *'  Wo  don't  wear  our  heart  on  our  sleeve,  in  this 
year  of  grace  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-six — "  He  broke 
off  suddenly.  "  What  do  you  see,  mon  cher^  that  you 
wildly  stare?    The  Marble  Horseman?'* 

**  By  Jove!"  Waldron  exclaimed,  under  his  breath,  *'  tha 
Marble  Horseman  would  hardly  surprise  me  morel  Look 
at  the  man  on  your  loft,  De  Launey,  sitting  like  a  statue 
of  dark  marble!  If  Alwyn  Bar  tram  be  alive  and  in  the 
flesh,  that  is  he.'' 

Tke  **  statue  of  dark  marble  "  turned  around,  with  a 
Bmile.  An  instant,  and  George  Waldron  had  started  out  of 
his  seat,  flushed  and  excited,  and  was  shaking  hands  with 
effusion. 

**  Then  it  is  you,  Bartram,  and  no  wraith!  And  aftei 
ten  years  of  exile  and  wandering  and  picture-painting,  you 
return  at  last.  Tl.'e  world  travels  as  in  a  groove  nowadays, 
it  seems  to  me.  We  always  return  to  the  poii_  .ve  started 
from.  Gad!  I'd  aa  soon  have  expected  to  behold  the 
Grand  Turk  sitting  out  the  opera  as  Alwyn  Bartram.  And 
when  did  you  return?" 

**  To-day,  in  the  *  Europa.'  And  happening  past  here 
this  evening,  I  dropped  in  to  kill  time.  Time  is  my  im- 
placable enemy,  George.  I  have  spent  the  past  ten  years 
m  trying  to  kill  it,  but  I  never  succeed." 

**  Ah!"  said  George,  *'  you  are  a  trifle  Uase,  I'm  afraid; 
but  nftver  mind — the  pure  and  innocent  air  of  balmy  New 
York  will  do  away  with  all  that,  and  restore  your  pristine 
freshness.  And'  so  you  have  made  your  mark  in  the  artistic 
world  at  last — knocked  Guide  and  Raphael,  and  the  rest 
of  these  ancient  bricks,  into  a  cocked  hat?  I've  read  all 
about  it — ^your  wonderful  Alpine  storms  and  Venetian  sun- 
sets, your  Didos,  and  Cordelias,  and  Iphigeuias,  and  the 
res^  of  'em.    J  always  thought  it  was  in  yon,  old  fellow 


estella's  husband. 


3»4 


Permit  mc  to  congratulate  you !    Ilore,  De  Lanney,  let  in« 
make  you  aoquainted  with  my  Orestes,  Alwyn  Bartram.'* 
;    The  gentlemen  bowed.    Ceorgo  WiiUlron  ran  on: 

**  Have  you  seen  many  of  the  old  facea  since  von  landed? 
But  of  course  you  haven't.  Well,  you  oouldn  t  come  to  a 
better  place  than  the  Academy.  I  see  hosts  of  old  acquaint- 
ances of  yours  on  every  hand,  and — by  JovqI  Alwyn,  there 
is  the  oldest,  the  nearest,  the  dearest  of  the  lot — the  lovely 
Leonio  herself,  your  old  adoration  I  While  we  talk  of  the 
*  Queen  of  the  Night,'  she  begins  to  shine.  Yonder  is  the 
beauty  of  the  season,  our  French  princess.  Mademoiselle 
De  Montreuil." 

He  raised  his  glass  eagerly;  Alwyn  Bartram  and  De 
Launey  did  the  same.  But  they  were  not  singular.  Afire 
of  lorgnettes  was  already  turned  in  that  direction.  Alwy*» 
Bartram  looked  and  saw. 

Radiant  in  jewels  and  brilliant  silk,  Leonie  Rutherford 
sat  before  him — more  splendid  in  her  rich,  dark,  insolent 
beauty  than  ever.  Ten  years  had  not  made  her  ten  houra 
older;  or,  if  it  had,  cosmetics,  and  a  French  maid,  and  a 
dazzling  toilet  hid  it  well.  The  bloom  on  her  cheek  was 
brighter,  the  lire  in  her  dark,  almond-shaped  eyes  more 
sparkling,  her  rich,  black  hair  more  soft  and  abundant,  the 
round  fairy  form  plump  as  a  partridge.  Yp°  *ime  and 
the  cares  of  life  sat  lightly  on  those  graceful  shoulders,  and 
ceaseless  smiles  rippled,  and  the  vivacious  black  eyes  danced 
like  twin  sunbeams  over  the  house. 

He  sat  and  looked  at  her — this  man  who  had  loved  her-  - 
whose  life  she  had  helped  to  wreck — who  might  have  been 
her  husband  to-day — and  not  one  pulse  quickened,  not  one 
heart-beat  stirred.  The  gleam  in  his  somber  eyes  was  cold 
and  critical,  and  not  unallied  to  contempt. 

**  She  wears  well,"  he  thought.  "  Is  it  nature,  or  is  it 
art?  Has  some  American  Madame  Rachel  undertaken  to 
make  her  *  beautiful  forever?'  la  that  damask  bloom  liquid 
rouge,  and  that  spotless  complexion  flake  white?  Is  it 
all  the  work  of  the  femme  de  chamhre,  or  the  result  of  a 
light  heart  and  a  peaceful  conscience  combined  with  the 
dead-and-gone  Rutherford's  rupees?" 

His  cynical  glance  left  her  and  rested  a  second  on  the  tall , 
white-haired,  proud  old  man  who  sat  beside  her — patriciai . 
and  rVenchman  from  head  to  foot — her  uncle,  the  Count 
De  Montreuil,  he  knew.    It  left  him  and  rested  on  the  thir^ 


ti 

*  I 


\' , 


254 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


occupant  of  the  box,  tho  count's  only  daughter^  heirea^ 
beauty,  belle,  Mailanioisello  PJstelle  Do  Montreuil. 

Alwyn  Bartram  looked,  and  from  that  instant  sa^  no  one 
else  in  the  house.  In  that  moment  one  woman  of  all 
women  on  earth  arose  before  him  to  transform  the  world. 
For  ten  long  years  his  heart  had  lain  cold  and  still  in  his 
breast;  not  all  the  beauties  of  Italy  or  Spain,  or  the  sunny 
Ehineland,  had  quickened  its  beating  oy  one  throb;  and 
now,  at  sight  of  a  pale  girl  sitting  in  an  opera-box,  it  awoke 
to  life  once  more,  vvitli  a  hot,  sudden  plunging  that  sent 
the  dusky  blood  redly  to  his  face. 

She  was  hardly  a  girl  either;  it  was  a  woman  of  five-and- 
twenty  who  sat  before  him,  very  simply  dressed  beside  her 

gorgeous  cousin — a  white  opera-cloak  slipping  off  her  shouk- 
ers,  and  white  roses  in  her  shining  dark-brown  hair.  A 
tall  and  staucsque  woman,  with  a  pale,  beautiful  face,  and 
wonderful  yellow-brown  eyes,  whoso  peers  not  all  the 
opium-eaters  of  Stamboul  ever  dreamed  of.  It  was  a  purely 
(Jrecian  face,  the  nose,  the  chin,  the  mouth,  perfect;  the 
delicate  cheeks  oval;  the  broad,  low  forehead  like  marble. 
And  the  dainty  head  reared  itself  upon  the  slender  throat 
with  a  haughty  grace  that  seemed  unconscious,  for  the 
rosebud  mouth  wore  an  expression  unutterably  sweet  and 
gentle.  And  deep  in  the  depths  of  those  pathetic,  liquid 
dark  eyes,  and  around  that  exquisite  mouth,  there  lay  a 
weary  look,  the  look  no  face  ever  wears,  save  the  face  of 
one  who  has  suffered  bitterly,  and  learned  endurance  after 
the  long,  long  strife. 

*'  It  is  the  ideal  face  1  have  been  trying  so  long  to  painty 
and  trying  in  vain,"  he  said. 

*'  '  In  many  earthly  forms  I  vainly  sought 
The  shadow  of  this  idol  of  my  thought.' 

Your  Mademoiselle  De  Montreuil  is  rarely  beautiful, 
Waldron.  I  wonder  no  longer  that  Russian  princes  and 
haughtier  English  earls  have  laid  their  crowns  vainly  at 
her  feet.  We  read  of  *  women  to  die  for. '  I  begin  to  think 
there  must  be  such  things  after  all — women  who  can  tram- 
ple on  strawberry-leaves. " 

"  I  say,  Bartram,"  George  remarked,  with  a  queer  side 
glance,  '*  does  she  remind  you  of  any  one  you  ever  knew? 
That  turn  of  the  head,  that  express! om  about  the  moutb< 
those  amber  eyes — think?'* 


estella's  husband. 


255 


But  Mr.  Bartram  had  no  need  to  think;  the  vague  resijni- 
olance,  shadowy,  yot  strong,  had  struck  him  with  a  (piick 
lieai't-pang  from  the  first. 

*'  Yes/*  he  said,  very  gravely,  '*  I  see — I  understand. 
And  yet  Estclla  was  not  like  that— not  in  the  least  like 
yonder  statuesque  woman, 

"  '  A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tull. 
And  most  divinely  fair;' 

but  the  resemblance  you  speak  of  is  theru.  Sliu  reminds  mo 
of  my  wife.*' 

"  The  little  Rutherford  sees  us,^'  cried  George,  a»iim.'it- 
edly.  **  Look  how  she  stares  I  She  recognizes  you,  Alwyn. 
See  *  beauty's  bright  transient  glow  '  all  over  her  fair  face 
in  delighted  surprise.  Does  she  wear  your  fetters  still,  I 
wonder?    By  Jove!  she  bows  and  beckons!    Let  us  go!" 

*'  You  grow  excited,"  De  Launey  said,  with  a  French- 
man's shrug.  **  One  would  fancy  you  in  the  fair  Leonie's 
list  of  killed,  too.  But  come,  the  curtain  falls  and  a  lady 
waits.  Come,  Mr.  Bartram,  and  be  presented  to  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  New  York." 

The  three  young  men  arose  and  made  their  way  to  the 
box  of  the  Count  De  Montreuil.  Leonie  Rutherford 
turned  eargorly  round,  her  cheeks  flushed,  bor  eyes  spark- 
ling, her  ringed  hand  outstretched. 

**  Mr.  Bartram!"  she  exclaimed.  Oh,  what  a  surprise 
this  is!  li  I  had  looked  and  beheld  Napoleon  III.  sitting 
down  yonder,  a  moment  ago,  I  could  hardly  have  been 
more  astonished.  Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  with  a 
laughing  nod  to  the  other  two,  **  I  will  speak  to  you  pres- 
ently. Estella,  let  me  present  ray  old,  old  friend,  Mr.  Al- 
wyn Bartram. " 

The  Count  De  Montreuil's  daughter  had  not  turned  round 
at  the  opening  of  the  door.  She  had  been  glancing  care- 
lessly over  the  house.  But  at  the  sound  of  the  name  spoken 
by  her  cousin,  a  sudden  stillness  came  over  her  from  head 
to  foot.  The  smile  on  her  lips  seemed  to  freeze.  The 
words  she  was  speaking  to  her  father  died  abruptly  away. 
The  change  was  instantaneous— as  instantaneously  it  van- 
ished. When  Mrs.  Rutherford  presented  her  **  old,  old 
friend,"  mademoiselle,  the  count's  daughter,  was  ready  to 
bow  with  easy  grace  and  infinite  calmness.  Her  face  was 
paler  than  her  opera-cloak;   but  that  beautiful  face  was 


:W6 


ksxella's  husband. 


i^ways  80  colorless,  that  its  added  pallor  no^  was  not  no- 
ticeable. 

M.  De  Launey  bent  over  Mademoiselle  De  Montreuil's 
cnair  with  the  nonchalant  grace  cf  your  thorough  French- 
man, talking  vivaciously.  He  was  an  old  acquaintance  in 
Paris,  a  distant  off-shoot  of  the  De  Montreuil  family,  and 
more  intimate  with  the  lovely  heiress  than  any  other  gen- 
tleman alive,  excepting  her  father. 

Mr.  Waldron  stood  a  little  aloof,  and  looked  enviously 
on,  watching,  covertly  also,  the  meeting  between  Leonie 
and  her  former  flame. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  meeting,  on  the  gentleman's  side,  at 
least.  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  grown  gashing  and  sentimen- 
tfl  with  the  lapse  of  years,  and  was  inclined  to  recall  her 
first  love  and  grow  pathetic  over  it,  had  Mr.  Bartram  sec- 
wnded  her  lead. 

But  Mr.  Bartram,  more  like  a  statue  of  dark  marble  than 
^  rer,  sat  among  the  bright  lamps  with  a  face  of  fixed  pallor 
<*Dd  gravity — a  face  strangely  stern  and  cold  for  that 
uiilliant  scene.  He  was  thinking  of  his  lost  wife;  of  that 
lost  wife  of  whom  he  had  never  heard  during  all  those 
weary  years,  and  of  the  share  this  brilliant,  hollow-hearted 
coquette  had  in  driving  her  from  his  side.  The  chief  fault 
was  his  own,  no  doubt;  but  Leonie  Rutherford  had  indi- 
rectly been  the  cause  of  all. 

His  heart  turned  bitter  and  harder  than  iron  as  the  past 
hkfose  before  him,  and  the  smiling  face  hideous  in  his  sight 
k^  a  death's-head.  He  glanced  away  from  her,  and  over 
at  the  pale,  earnest,  beautiful  face  of  the  count's  daughter. 
Again  that  vague  resemblance  thrilled  him  through  and 
t.irough. 

**  Ihere  are  women,  and  women,"  he  thought,  **  Estellas 
iind  Loonies,  the  true  and  the  false.  If  faces  speak  the 
truth,  this  peerless  French  woman  is  as  noble  as  she  is  lovely. 
And  my  wife  might  have  grown  like  that  in  these  ten 
years,  happily  spei.t.    My  poor  little  broken-hearted  Essie  1" 

Mademoiselle  De  Montreuil  raised  her  eyes  as  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind — those  great,  fathomless  eyes  of  liquid 
?ight,  and  for  the  third  time  that  sharp  pang  of  resem- 
blance pierced  his  heart.  They  ivei^e  alike,  his  dead  wife  and 
this  living  beauty. 

"  You  look  at  my  handsome  cousin,"  lieonie  exclaimed, 
in.  the  rapid,  vivacious  way  that  was  her  latest  r61e.     '*  She 


BSTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


257 


reminds  yoa  of —  Ah!  pardon  me.  The  subject  is  pain- 
ful, 1  know.  Very  beautiful,  is  she  not?  But,  mon  JJieu  ! 
colder  than  snow,  more  heartless  than  the  goddess  with  the 
shield  and  helmet,  and  more  wise.  It  is  a  paragon  of  frigid- 
ity, and  piety,  and  prudence,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  My 
stately,  passionless,  perfect  cousin.  Don't  look  too  much. 
Monsieur  Alwyn.  Like  that  other  goddess.  Medusa,  she 
is  fatal  to  all  who  gaze  for  long." 

'*  Yet  mademoiselle  does  not  look  merciless,'*  Mr.  Bar- 
tram  said,  slowly.    "  She  has  a  peculiarly  gentle  face.    One 
'  would  not  think  a  heart  of  stone  lay  beneath  that  tender 
smile." 

"  '  She  has  two  eyes  so  soft  and  brown, 
Take  care! 
She  gives  a  side  glance  and  looks  down. 

Beware! 
Trust  her  not,  she's  fooling  thee.'  " 

Leonie  hummed  the  words  by  way  of  answer. 

**  She  is  fatal,  1  tell  you!  Those  tender  smiles,  those 
gentle  eyes,  have  lured  more  of  your  unhappy  sex  to  their 
ruin  than  all  the  sirens  and  water-witches  in  the  fabled  seas 
of  Faerie.  She  w!Jl  smile  and  look  sweet  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  and  when  you  lay  your  heart  at  her  pretty  feet,  she 
will  smile  and  look  sweeter  than  ever,  and  say,  No.  And 
the  laws  of  <rfie  Medes  were  more  easily  altered  than  that 
terrible  No.  She  has  no  faith  in  mankind  as  lovers  or 
husbands.  She  is  cynical  and  skeptic  to  the  core.  As 
friends,  as  ball-room  partners,  as  something  sensible  to  talk 
to,  you  do  well  enough;  but  as  her  future  husband,  no,  Mr, 
Alwyn  Bartram.  As  a  friend,  I  advise  you  not  to  look  to 
long  at  that  pale,  classical  face.  My  helle  cousine  will 
never  marry.'* 

**  No?    Rather  hard,  is  it  not?    And  why?" 

Leonie  laufjjhed  a  little  contemptuously. 

*'  Who  knows?  Been  crossed  in  love,  as  the  house-maids 
say,  in  early  life — at  least  1  presume  so.  There  ninst  be  a 
cause  for  all  that  bitterness,  and  she  is  bitter  as  death  on 
the  subject  sometimes.  She  wears  a  picture  round  her 
neck;  if  one  could  only  see  it,  it  might  tell  tales;  and  she 
has  her  anniversary  of  some  great  sorrow,  or  some  great 
joy,  for  every  New  Tear's -day  is  sacred,  and  she  shuts 
herself  up  in  her  room  and  sees  no  one.  Her  past  life  is 
a  sealed  mystery  to  me — to  her  father,  too^  I  think,  for  she 

9 


258 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


is  intensely  secretire.  I  only  met  her,  you  know,  two  yean 
ago,  when  I  went  to  Paris.  We  have  been  all  together 
since.  But,  del !  how  I  chatter,  and  here  the  opera  ends, 
and  we  are  due  at  Madame  Campau's  ball.  You  will 
come  to  see  us,  will  you  not?  Ah!  don't  look  so  grim, 
Alwyn.  Don't  say  no,"  with  a  t^ender  glance.  "  Remem- 
ber what  old  friends  we  are.  1  nave  a  thousand  things  to 
say  to  you.  You  mustQ.om.Q\  Estelle,  dearest,  indorse  my 
invitation,  will  you?    Monsieur  gazes  at  you  imploringly." 

Mile  De  Montreuil  looked  up  with  that  rare,  bright 
smile  of  hers. 

"  We  will  be  very  happy — papa  and  I — to  welcome  Mr. 
Bartram,  or  any  friend  of  yours,  Leonie.  Papa,  is  it  not 
time  to  go?" 

She  spoke  English  perfectly,  without  the  slightest  foreign 
accent,  in  a  voice  that  somehow  suited  her  face — sweet  and 
silvery.  Then  the  party  arose,  the  count  drawing  his 
daughter's  arm  through  his  own,  Leonie  clinging  to  her 
old  lover,  and  descended  to  the  carriage. 

As  it  flashed  away,  he  caught  a  parting  glimpse  of  the 
two  women — Leonie,  dark,  sparkling,  smiling — mademoi- 
selle, pale,  quiet,  a  little  grave.  But  it  was  that  pale,  ear- 
nest face  that  haunted  his  dreams  that  night — Leonie  wa^^ 
forgotten. 


CHAPTEE  XXVin. 

"  FOR,   SOON"  OR  LATE,   LOVE  IS  HIS  OWN  AVENGER." 

**  Will  he  speak  to-night?  Will  he  ever  speak,  1  won- 
der? Has  the  old  love  all  died  out,  now  that  I  love  him 
a  thousand-fold  more  than  ever?  And  he  knows  it; 
too — surely  he  must  know  it.  He  must  see  it,  if  he  is 
not  blind.  Ten  years  ago  when  I  refused  him,  earth 
held  nothing  half  so  dear  as  Leonie.  To-day,  when 
Leonie  would  give  the  world  for  him,  he  turns  cold 
and  hard  as  iron.  And  yet — and  yet,  what  does  it  all 
mean?  Day  after  day  he  is  here,  for  the  past  month; 
he  sits  by  my  side,  he  turns  my  music,  he  haunts  us  per- 
petually, and  still — he  will  not  speak.  Can  it  be  that,  like 
all  the  rest,  my  tall,  cold-hearted,  pale-faced  nonette  of  a 
cousin  has  bewitched  him  with  her  yellow  eyes  and  grand 
uplifted  ways?  He  sits  by  my  side,  but  he  looks  at  her;  he 


/' 


ESTELLA's    HU8BAND. 


259 


forgets  to  answer  me  for  listening  when  she  speaks;  he 
talks,  but  it  is  to  ask  concerning  her.  Is  it  Leonie  Ruther- 
ford or  Estelle  De  Montreuil  that  Alwyn  Bartram  loves?** 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  long,  elegant  drawing-room  of 
her  uncle's  handsome  house — looking  brilliant  and  elegant 
herself  in  a  shimmering  dinner-dress  of  rosy  silk,  and  a 
diamond  star  ablaze  in  her  black  hak — Leonie  thought 
all  this. 

Outside,  the  wintery  rain  beat,  and  the  wintery  wind  blew; 
but  within,  bright  lamps,  and  fragrant  flowers,  and  trop- 
ical heat,  and  velvet  and  gilding,  and  carpets  and  curtains, 
made  a  summer  picture  of  warmth  and  bloom. 

She  was  quite  alone  in  the  long,  lofty  room,  walking  up 
and  down,  with  an  impatient  frown  on  her  low,  dusk  brow, 
a  compression  of  impatient  pain  curving  the  red,  beautiful 
lips. 

She  was  looking  really  gorgeous  in  her  rosy  robes,  and 
diamond  stars,  and  rich,  dark  loveliness — ripe  as  a  pome- 
granate. 

But  not  all  the  consciousness  of  her  own  beauty  would 
console  her  to-night;  for  Leonie  Rutherford  was  deeply  in 
love,  and,  it  seemed,  hopelessly.  She  had  always  loved  him 
»— never  more  than  when,  of  her  own  selfish,  ambitious  will, 
she  had  given  him  up;  and  now  she  was  free,  and  he  was  by 
her  side,  and  the  tables  were  turned,  and  ''  Love  was  his 
own  avenger.*' 

They  were  both  rich  now — poverty  could  stand  between 
them  no  more.  He  was  better  than  rich — famous.  She 
was  more  ripely  beautiful  than  ever.  Both  were  still 
young.     What,  then,  should  hold  them  apart  now? 

She  ground  her  little  white  teeth  with  the  old  trick  of  im- 
potent rage,  as  she  saw  how  futile  all  her  efiforts  were  to 
rekindle  the  old  flame. 

**  It  is  Estelle  De  Montreuil  who  stands  between  us," 
she  thought — "  that  pale,  marble-white,  marble-cold 
statue  of  passionless  propriety!  She,  without  blood  enough 
to  sin,  or  love,  or  hate— who  goes  placidly  on,  breaking 
hearts  with  her  sweet  smile  and  her  golden  eyes!  Bah!  I 
hate  her!" 

The  door  opened  as  the  vindictive  thought  rushed  through 
her  mind,  and  the  cot  t's  stately  daughter  swept  in.  Re- 
gally beautiful  as  ever — the  head  and  shoulders  over  her 
petite  cousin^  and^  as  usual,  very  simply  dressed.     But  th§ 


''\U 


260 


estella's  husband. 


mm 


1'^ 


..I 


■■^'i 


iiiiPv 


ri 


lovely  arms  and  shoulders  gleamed,  like  ivory  against 
bronze,  over  the  golden-brown  silk  she  wore,  and  the  ivy 
crown  on  the  shining  coronal  of  hair  matched  well  the 
queenly  grace  of  that  proudly  uplifted  head.  She  looked 
what  she  was — the  regal  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  aristo- 
crats, in  whose  veins  the  blue  blood  had  run  unpolluted  for 
many  centuries. 

'*  Still  alone,  Leonie?'^  she  said.  **  Are  not  the  gentle- 
men lingering  long  this  evening?  Whskt  a  stupid  custom  it 
is,  their  remaining  behind  in  the  dining-room,  when  they 
are  dyin^  to  follow  us,  and  we,*'  with  a  second  arch  smile, 
**  are  dying  to  have  them  come!  But  I  suppose  papa  and 
Monsieur  l)e  Launey  linger  to  talk  politics,  and  Messieurs 
Bartram,  Waldron,  and  the  rest,  to  discuss  high  ait.  We 
are  not  supposed  to  comprehend  these  serious  matters  of 
life,  poor  imbeciles  that  we  are!  " 

She  threw  herself  into  a  fauteuil,  the  picture  of  provok- 
ing calm,  and  g*^  :3d  at  her  cousin.  Leonie  made  some  ir- 
ritating reply,  and  kept  on  her  impatient  walk. 

*'  Really,  Mrs.  Rutherford,'^  Mile.  De  Montreuil  said, 
calmly,  "  if  it  is  not  absolutely  necessary  for  your  health — 
that  vigorous  exercise — I  wish  you  would  sit  down.  I  have 
nerves  as  well  as  ordinary  mortals,  and  it  rather  sets  them 
on  edge,  that  feverish  march  of  yours.  Was  not  monsieur, 
the  handsome  artist,  sufficiently  devoted  during  dinner?  or 
did  some  one  interrupt  him  on  the  verge  of  proposal?  As 
far  as  I  could  judge,  from  my  remote  seat,  he  looked  dis- 
traught, moody.  In  fact,  if  he  were  not  an  artist — a  lion, 
and  the  light  of  your  existence,  ma  chere — 1  should  say 
fiulky.  What  was  it — the  proverbial  eccentricity  of  genius, 
or  indigestion ?'* 

**  Whunyou  can  talk  without  sneering.  Mademoiselle  De 
Montreuil,''  Mrs.  Rutherford  answcied,  with  becoming 
dignity,  "  I  may  answer  you.  It  is  accounted  <  hver,  I  be- 
lieve, to  be  able  to  sneer  a^  the  finer  feelings  o-'  uur  nature, 
to  be  cynical  and  contemptuous,  and  all  that,  but  the 
sneerers  are  generally  soured,  1  notice,  beforehand,  and  the 
cynicism  but  another  name  for  spice  and  ill-temper." 

The  count's  daughter  laughed  good-naturedly. 

*'  The  finer  feelings  of  your  nature!  I  like  that  from 
you,  Leonie.  As  my  friend  Sam  Weller  remarks,  there 
are  so  many  finer  feelings  that  one  is  puzzled  sometimes 
among  them.    Don't  be  orossi  Leonie — tell  me  nil  about 


:-:stklla's  husband. 


261 


this  old  lover  of  yours,  as  I  am  sure  you  are  dying  to  do. 
r  promise  to  be  all  sympathy  and  attention,  and  I  know, 
my  poor  little  cousin,  secrecy  is  not  your  forte.  Sit  down 
nere  comfortably,  and  let  me  hear  the  whole  story/' 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  Leonii;  siiid,  taking  the  seat, 
nevertheless;  **  at  least,  nothing  yoii  liave  not  already  heard. 
Vv'C  were  engaged,  over  ten  years  ago,  and  '* — with  sudden 
vehemence — '*  he  is  the  only  man  alive  I  ever  loved!" 

*•  And  you  are  the  only  woman  /^e  ever  loved,  I  suppose,'* 
her  cousin  suggested.  "  He  looks  like  a  man  who  might 
be  faithful  to  an  early  idol.  Strange,  then,  you  are  not  his 
wife  to-day,  pehle  !" 

**  It  is  all  my  own  fault,"  Leonie  said,  bitterly;  '*  all — 
from  ^rst  to  last.  1  loved  him,  but  I  loved  my  piide  and 
vanity  more;  and,  when  he  lost  his  uncle's  fortune,  I  left 
him,  too." 

"  A  dastardly  act!"  said  the  cold,  clear  voice  of  the 
count's  daughter,  **  and  it  is  the  fashion  of  our  gallant  old 
house  always  to  back  the  losing  side.  1  would  not  have 
done  it." 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not,"  retorted  the  little  widow,  still 
more  bitterly;  "but  I  don't  set  up  to  be  such  a  Princess 
Perfect  as  you,  Eatelle.  I  left  him,  and  married  old 
Rutherford,  and  he — he  went,  and  in  a  fit  of  desperation 
wedded  a  little  namby-pamby,  bread-and-butter-eating 
school-girl  without  beauty  or  brains. " 

*'  A  bad  bargain,"  said  mademoiselle,  with  unutterable 
calm.  **  Then  monsieur  is  a  widower,  or  separated,  like 
all  you  Americans — which?" 

"  Oh,  a  widower,  thank  Heaven!"  replied  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford, piously.  **  She  committed  suicide,  1  believe — 1  told 
you  she  had  no  brains.  Though  really,  in  her  place,  I 
think  I  would  have  done  it  myself." 

**  He  was  unkind  to  her,  then?  I  confess,  I  should  never 
think  it — he  looks  sufficiently  chivalrous.  But  one  can 
not  judge  by  looks." 

*'  Well,  1  don't  know;  he  was  not  absolutely  unkind  to 
her,  either — he  was  only  indifferent.  He  loved  me,  and 
he  didn't  care  an  iota  for  her,  and  she — poor,  little,  soft- 
headed simpleton — was  madly  infatuated  with  him." 

"  With  her  own  husband?  How  ridiculous!  It  was  a 
mad  infatuation !  As  you  say,  Leonie,  she  must  truly  hay« 
b«en  a  *  soft-headed  simpleton. ' " 


ri 


Ik' 


IIP 


'I    !f  ,1. 


pij 


9    I  Il^i  q 


'Pi, 


«|l 


:362 


E8TELLA \S    HUSBANIA. 


'*  Sr/eeringaghln!"  exclaimed  Leonie, impatiently.  "I 
wish  some  of  your  adorers.  Miss  De  Montreuil,  who  thinJc 
yoM  br.t  one  remove  from  an  angel,  could  hear  how  bitter 
you  can  be.  It  might  cure  them,  I  fanog^.  Yes,  she  was 
madly  infatuated — idolized  him,  in  fact,  and  was  frantically 
jeuJous  of  me.  And  then  his  cousin  came — Robert  Bartram 
— and  took  his  fortune  from  him,  and  slandered  his  wife, 
and  there  was  a  duel,  and  Alwyn  was  badly  wounded. 
Romantic,  is  it  not?  Well,  the  wife  nursed  him  devotedly 
through  it,  and  when  he  recovered,  his  first  act  was  to  re- 
proach hor  bitterly  and  drive  her  from  his  side.'' 

**  The  old  story,"  said  mademoiselle — "  woman's  blind 
devotion — man's  lordly  return.  And  she  went  to  the  drug- 
store, and  invested  in  prussic  acid?  *  One  more  unfortu- 
nate,' etc." 

"  I  don't  know— neither  does  he,  for  certain;  but  it  is 
an  assured  thing  she  is  dead.  The  manner  of  her  death 
is  still  shrouded  in  mystery.  After  her  disappearance, 
Robert  Bartram  met  with  an  accident  that  ended  his  life; 
but  he  lived  long  enough  to  clear  her  fair  fame  from  every 
blot.  Then  search  was  made — svch  search — for  the  miss- 
ing one,  but  all  in  vain.     She  has  never  been  heard  of 


smce. 


fy 


it 


It  reminds  one  of  the  story  of  the  *  Old  Oak  Chest,'  " 
Estelle  said,  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile.  **  Poor  little  wife! 
But  then  these  silly  little  bread-and-butter  eaters — we  can 
afford  to  spare  one  of  them. " 

Mrs.  Rutherford  looked  indignantly  at  her  cousin. 

"  They  used  to  call  me  heartless,  Estelle,  but  they  ought 
to  hear  you!  You  are  harder  than  iron — a  bitterer  old 
cynic  than  Diogenes  in  his  tub!" 

Again  Mile.  De  Montreuil  smiled  unruffled. 

"  How  delightful  to  find  Madame  Rutherford  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  censor!  One  would  hardly  expect  it,  either.  Is 
your  story  finished,  petite  ?    1  am  going  to  the  piano. " 

**  Almost.  Alwyn  Bartram  left  New  York,  after  hunt- 
ing high  and  low,  and  spending  oceans  of  money,  and  1 
never  set  eyes  on  him  since,  until  that  night,  a  month  ago, 
at  the  opera.  He  is  the  most  altered  of  mankind — so 
stem,  so  gloomy,  so  taciturn.  And  he  used  to  be  fasci- 
nating! I  could  never  have  believed  the  loss  of  a  wife  he  did 
not  love  could  change  him  so. ' ' 


3f 


titly.  "  I 
who  think 
bow  bitter 
s,  she  was 
frantically 
t  Bartram 
I  his  wife, 
wounded, 
devotedly 
waa  to  le- 
an's blind 
the  drug- 
unfortu- 

but  it  is 
her  death 
pearance, 
I  his  life; 
om  every 
the  miss- 
heard  of 

Uhest/  " 
ttle  wife! 
— we  can 

n. 

ey  ought 

ierer  old 


he  char- 
her.     Is 

no." 

er  hunt- 
,  and  1 


y 

ith  ago, 
:ind — so 
e  fasci- 
e  he  did 


estella's  husband. 


263 


'*  Blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight!  At  last, 
perhaps,  he  learned  to  love  her.  *' 

"'  Ah,  bah!  sentimental  nonsense!  No;  it  was  remorse 
that  prompted  the  search — nothing  more.  He  never  loved 
her — he  never  could  love  her.  There  was  nothing  attract- 
ive or  lovable  about  her.  A  plain,  pale,  awkward  country 
girl!    And  then,  1  was  there! 

**  And  he  loved  you,  and  does  still,  without  doubt.  Very 
true,  Leonie;  and  yet,  I  don't  envy  you.  Marry  Mr.  Bar- 
tram  if  you  can;  but  if  the  ghost  of  his  dead  wife  does  not 
rise  before  you  at  the  altar,  then — '* 

She  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  laugh  at  Leonie's  angry, 
scandalized  face,  and  arose. 

**  What  nonsense  1  talk,  don't  I,  ma  cheref  And  yet  I 
have  the  strongest  internal  conviction  you  will  never  write 
yourself  Mrs.  Bartram. " 

She  swept  across  the  room,  heedless  of  Leonie's  indignant 
retort.  *'  Then  you  mean  to  marry  him  yourself,  perhaps  " 
— and  sat  down  to  the  piano. 

She  was  a  brilliant  performer,  and  the  instrument  was 
superb;  but  this  evening  her  fingers  wandered  plaintivp'y 
over  the  keys— so  softly  that  the  beating  of  the  wintciy 
storm  was  plainly  audible  without. 

Old  memories  seemed  stirring  within  her;  the  beautiful 
face  looked  strangely  sad,  the  tender  eyes  strangely  dreamy. 
Was  she  thinking  of  days — this  proud  daughter  of  a  proud 
race — very  sweet,  and  gone  forever? 

All  at  once  she  broke  into  a  song — and  old,  old  song — the 
simplest  any  one  had  ever  heard  the  accomplished  Mile.  De 
Montreuil  sing: 

"  On  the  banks  of  Allan  Water, 

When  brown  autumn  spreads  its  store, 
Still  was  seen  the  miller's  daughter, 

But  she  smiled  no  more. 
For  the  summer  grief  had  brought  her. 

And  the  soldier,  false  was  he. 
On  the  banks  of  Allan  Water, 

None  so  sad  as  she. ' ' 

The  door  opened  as  she  sung;  the  gentlemen  entered^ 
noiselessly,  listening,  and  one  stood  spell-bound. 

Before  Alwyn  Bartram  there  arose  a  vision — evoked  b^ 
this  song,  unheard  for  nearly  eleven  years — the  vision  of 
the  little  Chelsea  parlor,  his  pale  girl-wife  singing  mourn* 
fully  to  herself  in  the  lonely  twilight. 


2tj4 


ESTELLA'S    HU8BAND. 


'J  If 


What  diJ  this  beautiful  daughter  of  the  French  count 
mean  by  looking  at  him  with  those  dead  eyes — by  smiling 
upon  him  with  that  lovely,  tender  smile — by  singing  the 
song  she  used  to  sing? 

**  Is  it  retribution?"  he  thought,  with  an  inward  groan, 
**  Am  I  9ierer  to  forget?  Is  the  woman  I  love  to  be  the 
avenging  ghost  of  the  wife  I  have  lost?" 

For  it  had  come  to  this — he  loved  Estelle  De  Montreuil. 
Leonie's  worst  fears  were  rightly  founded.  Stripped  of  all 
scohistry,  he  loved  the  count's  daughter — this  peerless 
. jiuty,  who  refused  princes  and  earls,  and  scores  of  un- 
i'^^ed  worshipers,  and  sailed  on  her  placid  way,  serene  and 
cuiiUy  bright  as  the  glittering  midnight  moon. 

H«  'oved  her  without  hope,  all  the  more  passionately, 
perhaps,  thpt  he  was  hopeless.  The  grapes  that  hung  in 
the  sunshine,  high  above  our  reach,  are  always  the  sweetest 
What  was  he — a  disappointed,  moody,  remorseless  man — 
that  this  peerless  Estelle  should  stoop  from  her  high  estate 
to  give  him  one  tender  thought — she  whose  stately  head 
might  have  worn  a  princely  crown. 

bhe  looked  up  as  she  finished  che  song,  and  their  eyes 
met — those  magnetic,  fathomless  eyes,  whose  glances 
thrilled  him  to  the  very  soul — the  very  eyes  of  the  wife  he 
had  lost. 

Impulsively  he  started  up — crossed  over  to  the  piano, 
while  a  lovely,  fluttering  color  came  and  faded  in  the  pale, 
oval  cheeks. 

He  seldom  forced  himself  upon  Mile.  De  Montreuil — he 
was  content  to  worship  his  goddess  afar  off;  but  to-night 
some  impulse  stronger  than  himself  forced  him  to  her 
side.  His  heart  was  full — full  of  her  beauty  and  grace 
and  his  own  mad  love;  yet  when  he  spoke  his  words  were 
as  commonplace  as  words  could  be. 

"I  did  not  think  Mademoiselle  De  Mont^*  uil  honored 
our  simple  old  English  ballads  so  far.  It  is  rare  indeed 
to  hear  them  in  these  laitter  days,  and  yet  they  are  very  ten- 
der and  sweet." 

**  ?>lademoi8elle  De  Montreuil  does,  and  has  dom  ,  niuny 
things  monsieur  does  not  dream  of  in  his  philosopli v , "  -l.e 
answered,  gayly.  '*  I  like  these  old  songs,  and  yci  ^ 
nearly  eleven  years  since  I  sung  that  before." 

He  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  and  looked  at  her 
earnestly. 


Qh  count 
y  smiling 
iging  the 

d  groaii. 
to  be  the 

^ontreuil. 
3ed  of  all 
peerless 
)s  of  un- 
irene  and 

lionately, 
)  hung  in 
sweetest 
8  man — 
gh  estate 
bely  head 

heir  eyes 

glances 

5  wife  he 

le  piano, 
he  pale, 

euil — he 
to-night 
to  her 
id  grace 
•ds  were 

honored 
indeed 
ery  ten- 

niany 

y,"  -lie 

,  at  lier 


'TI'M.A  S    IU?BAND. 


265 


What  did  it  mean— this  bewildering  chain  of  coinci- 
dences? Nearly  eleven  years,  too,  since  he  had  heard  his. 
wife  sing  it  in  the  old  Chelsea  homestead! 

A  wild,  impossible  idea  flashed  through*,  his  brain,  and 
set  his  heart  throbbing  madly.  But  z  ^^cond  later  he 
could  have  laughed  aloud  at  himself  ii  'tie  bitterness  of 
his  self-scorn. 

*'  Am  I  falling  into  my  dotage  at  eight-and-thirty,  that  1 
think  such  things?  Do  I  expect  to  live  a  chapter  out  of 
the  *  Arabian  Nights,'  or  the  *  Castle  of  Otranto,'  or  any, 
other  romance  of  wonders?  My  little,  pale-faced,  shy- 
eyed  wife,  and  this  superb,  haughty,  magnificent  daughter 
of  the  gods,  one  and  the  same!  Bah!  Alwyn  Bartram; 
you  have  been  a  fool  ^^1  your  life — you  grow  a  greater  fool 
with  every  passing  y»-  r. 

The  silvery  voice  -sv  t  and  clear  as  a  crystal  bell — 
recalled  him.  She  iocvrea  very  gracious  and  gentle  to-night 
— this  uplifted  lauv,  w»  oheld  all  mankind  at  arm's-length 
— and  the  smile  bi  the;  liquid  eyes,  on  the  perfect  lips,  was 
inexpressibly  fae     ^t'ng. 

He  yielded  himseli  to  the  siren's  fatal  spell,  as  in  the  old 
days  he  had  yielded  to  her  cousin.  The  rosy  fetters  closed 
tighter  and  tighter  about  him.  The  lion  was  hopelessly 
meshed  in  the  golden  glitter  of  her  eyes  and  smiles. 

He  let  himself  drift  to  his  fate  in  very  desperation;  he 
yielded  to  the  subtile  witchery  of  voice  and  smile  without 
one  effort  to  resist. 

*'  Let  the  worst  come!"  he  thought,  with  his  fatalist's 
recklessness.  ^^  I  am  equal  to  either  fortune;  1  will  sit  in 
tho  sunshine  while  I  can;  when  I  am  cast  forth  into  the 
cater  darkness,  where  so  many  better  men  have  gone  be- 
fore, I  will  be  ready  to  face  the  worst;  Mademoiselle  De 
Montreuil,  *  the  refuser,'  as  they  name  her,  shall  have  a 
chance  to  refuse  still  another  victim  speedily.  And  when 
it  comes,  and  I  know  the  worst,  I  can  go  back  to  Italy 
and  paint  my  pictures,  and  become  a  misanthrope,  and  a 
sneerer,  and  a  woman-hater,  like  the  rest." 

All  the  long  evening  the  artist  lingered  by  the  side  of 
the  enchantress,  with  a  moody  inflexibility  worthy  of  a 
better  cause.  And  she  never  once  repulsed  him.  For  a 
W'fiiler,  she  let  herself  be  monopolized. 

'^.\e  sung  for  him,  played  him  dreamy  sonatas  from 
h-:^m}'t,  talked  to  him  of  Italy,  of  his  art,  of  his  success^ 


266 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


w 


ii-f-^ 


of  her  good  wishes  for  his  future,  until  the  man's  heart 
burned  within  him.  She  looked  so  lovely,  so  lovable,  so 
gentle,  so  near  a  queen  with  the  erown  and  scepter  laid 
aside,  for  the  time  being  all  his  own. 

He  was  beside  her — dizzy  with  his  undreamed-of  bliss — 
wishing  the  golden  hours  of  this  enchanted  evening  could 
go  on  forever. 

There  were  others  present  quite  as  much  astonished  by 
the  artist's  success  as  the  artist  himself — Count  De  Mont- 
rouil  among  them.  He  looked  in  wonder,  and  pulled  his 
long  white  mustache  in  direst  perplexity. 

What  did  his  Sphinx  of  a  daughter  mean  by  becoming 
human  all  at  once,  after  being  a  marble  statue  for  so 
many  years?  Had  the  Prince  come  to  arouse  the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  when  he  had  given  the  prince  over  as  a  hopeless 
myth?  And  was  this  black-browed,  stern-looking,  gloomy 
young  man,  who  talked  little  and  smiled  less,  the  magician 
that  was  to  change  his  beautiful  Estelle  from  marble  to 
flesh? 

**  Sucre  bleu  !'*  the  old  Napoleonist  thought,  knitting 
his  silvery  brows.  **  It  passes  one's  comprehension!  I 
never  saw  her  half  so  gracious  before,  with  the  best  men 
of  the  empire  at  her  feet.  That  mythical  husband  in  the 
background,  of  whom  she  told  me  ten  years  ago— does  this 
man  remind  her  of  him?  or  is  it  the  man  himself?  Ah, 
bah!  who  can  comprehend  a  woman?'* 

And  Leonie?  But  Leonie  was  not  one  to  yield  without 
a  struggle.  Like  all  the  De  Montreuils,  she  was  ready  to 
fight  until  the  last  gasp.  At  first  her  black  eyes  had 
flashed  amazed  and  indignant  Are.  What  did  Estelle  De 
Montreuil  mean  by  taking  possession  of  her  property? 

Then  she  sat  still  and  waited,  her  cheeks  still  flushed  and 
eyes  still  flashing,  and  lips  ominously  compressed.  And 
under  her  very  nose  the  flirtation  still  went  on. 

Then  she  rose,  great  with  the  occasion,  and  marched 
resolutely  to  the  rescue,  bent  on  reclaiming  her  slave,  or 
dying  in  the  struggle. 

Bat  she  failed — signally  failed.  The  plainest  kitchen- 
maid  in  the  area  regions  could  hardly  have  been  ignored 
more  effectually.  Mile.  De  Montreuil  was  determined  on 
keeping  her  captive,  and,  alas  for  Leonie!  that  captive 
was  but  too  willing.  She  struggled  bravely  to  the  last, 
but  to  the  last  in  v^in.      His  parting  word,  his  parting 


estelia's   HLSUAMi 


367 


'a  heart 
able,  so 
ter  laid 

:  bliss— 
g  could 

shed  by 
B  Mont- 
lled  his 

looming 
for  so 
ileeping 
lopeless 
gloomy 
lagician 
irble  to 

mitting 
ion  I  I 
)st  men 
I  in  the 
oes  this 
?    Ah, 

without 
Bady  to 
es  had 
Bile  De 
? 

ed  and 
And 

arched 
ive,  or 

tchen- 
nored 
led  on 
aptive 
last, 
larting 


glance,  his  last  hand-clasp— all,  a?l  were  for  Eatelle!  He 
hardly  knew  she  was  in  the  room. 

*'  Woe  to  the  vanquished!"  George  Waldron  solemnly 
said  in  her  ear.     **  All  is  lost  but  honor!*' 

They  were  gone— the  drawing- room  was  deaerted.  With 
blazing  eyes  the  small  virago  turned  upon  her  tall  cousin; 
but  mademoiselle  had  iguominiouHly  lied.  *'  Conscience 
makes  cowards  of  us  all.''  She  was  not  prepared  to  face 
ker  much-injured  cousin  just  then. 

Up  in  her  luxurious  room,  the  light  burning  low,  the 
,  rain  and  sleet  lashing  the  windows,  Estelle  knelt,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands,  her  heart  throbbing  tumultuously. 

"  At  last,"  that  impassioned  heart  cried — '*  at  last  the 
crowning  hour  of  my  life  hus  come!  He  loves  me  as  he 
never  loved  her!    At  last,  at  last,  he  is  mine  !** 

In  another  room  near,  equally  luxurious,  brilliantly  light- 
ed, the  gorgeous  widow  walked  up  and  down,  nearly  frantic 
with  rage  and  jealousy,  impotent  love  and  despair. 

**  I  am  no  more  to  him  than  the  commonest  vagrant 
that  walks  the  streets;  if  1  were  dead  to-morrow  it  would 
not  cause  him  one  pang.  He  is  all  hers;  he  loves  her  as 
he  never  loved  me  m  his  life.  And  1  might  have  been  his 
happy  wife  to-day  if  I  had  so  chosen — miserable,  selfish 
fool  that  I  have  been." 

And  in  his  room,  Alwyn  Bartram  gazed  upon  a  painted 
face — the  beautiful  face  of  his  idol — as  a  devotee  might 
upon  his  patron  saint,  with  a  rapt,  ecstatic  gaze. 

**  If  the  world  were  mine,  1  would  lay  it  at  her  feet!"  he 
thought.  "  Does  earth  hold  another  like  her — so  beauti- 
ful, so  noble,  so  true?  My  peerless  love,  the  crowning 
madness  of  my  life — when  1  tell  you  how  devotedly  I  wor- 
ship you — must  come  very  soon!  My  love  is  too  strong  for 
one  heart  to  hold!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

**  COME   WHAT   WILL,    I   HAVE   BEEN   BLESSED. "' 

Alwyn  Bartram  had  returned  to  JSIew  York;  why,  he 
could  hardly  have  told  you  himself.  The  past  ten  years 
had  drifted  dreamily  away  in  Italy,  and  he  !iad  won  a  name 
among  the  immortals.  His  pictures  were  lauded  to  the 
skies,  and  he  wrote  his  name  high  among  the  Academicians. 


d 


i 


2es 


EBTELLA's    HU8r,AND. 


ill: 

fill 

■ii 


t\' 


But  absence  had  not  brought  iorgotf  ulness,  nor  fluccesfl 
oontuiit.  That  chronic  remorse  for  his  past  misdeeds 
hauntod  iiim  stiil. 

Ill  tlio  lone  watches  of  the  long,  still  nights,  the  pale,  re- 
proachful face  of  his  wife  rose  out  of  the  silvery  Italian 
moonlight,  unspeakably  pallid  and  sad —an  avenging  ghost. 
He  coulil  not  forget  her;  he  could  not  forget  the  miserable 
uncertainty  that  wrapped  her  end. 

It  was  some  vague  hope  that  a  second  search  might  evoke 
something  to  lighten  the  darkness  that  had  brought  him 
ba(;k;  but  on  the  tirst  night  of  his  return,  Estelle  De  Mont- 
reuil  had  arisen  before  him  to  transform  his  life.  And 
since  that  night,  his  existence  had  been  one  long  dream  of 
her. 

He  sat  dreaming  of  her  still,  while  thinking  bitterly  and 
self-reproachfully  of  the  wasted  weeks  in  which  not  one 
effort  nad  been  made.  Ho  sat  among  the  brilliant  lights, 
and  flowers,  and  gay  faces,  dark  and  distrait  as  usual — 
wrapped  in  moodiness  as  in  a  mantle — a  gloomy  specter  at 
the  feast. 

Once  again  the  scene  was  Count  De  Montreuil's  lofty 
drawing-room;  the  time,  three  nights  after  that  memora- 
ble dinner-party.  It  was  a  musical  reunion,  and  fair  women 
and  brave  men  mustered  strong,  and  fairest  among  them, 
as  the  moon  among  stars,  moved  the  queenly  daughtei  of 
the  Parisian  count. 

Alwyn  Bartram  sat  listening  to  the  music,  that  was  all 
meaningless  crash  and  uproar  except  when  she  sung.  By 
his  side  sat  Leonie,  looking  brilliantly,  as  usual,  dressed 
to  perfection,  and  lavishing  upon  the  gloomy  ingrate  by 
her  side  all  the  sweetness  of  her  bewitching  glances  and 
smiles. 

1  think  his  very  moodiness — his  **  Count  Lara ''  gloom, 
had  an  irresistible  fascination  of  its  own,  making  him  more 
like  a  banished  prince  than  an  every-day  Christian. 

But  ascetic  St.  Kevin,  on  his  rocky  perch,  never  turned 
a  d(  ifer  ear  to  the  fascinations  of  the  lovely  Cathleen, 
than  Alwyn  Bartram  to  the  witching  wiles  of  his  early  love. 

He  arose,  at  last,  aldiosfc  rudely — she  had  held  him  captive 
for  over  >*n  hour — and,  without  one  word  of  excuse  or 
apology,  quitted  her  side. 

Mrs.  Kutherford  looked  after  him,  with  pale  face  and 


ESTELLA's    HU8BANP. 


260 


)T  fluncesfl 
niindeeds 

pale,  re- 
7  Italian 
ig  ghost, 
niserable 

rht  evoke 
ight  him 

00  Mont- 
fe.  And 
dream  of 

terly  and 

1  not  one 
it  lights, 
}  usual — 
}pecter  at 

airs  lofty 

memora- 

ir  women 

y  them, 

rhtek  of 


Jg 


was  all 
By 

dressed 
grate  by 
nces  and 


gloom, 
im  more 

turned 
!athleen, 
irly  love. 

captive 
[cuse  or 

face  and 


omjuously  flashing  eyes.  Had  it  been  the  days  of  tlM 
Borgia,  that  look  might  have  sealed  his  doom. 

She  i3aw  him  pauao  ut  the  curtained  entrance  of  a  tiny 
boudoir  opening  out  of  the  drawing-room,  hesitate  an  in- 
stant, then  enter.  She  looked  round  for  Jier  cousin;  she 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

'*  She  is  there,'*  the  littL  widow  thought,  compressing 
her  lips,  "  and  ho  has  gone  to  tell  her,  what  he  liaa  told 
me  a  thousand  times,  that  he  loves  her.  Well,  when  sho 
refuses  him,  perhaps  he  will  return  to  nie,  and  1  love  him 
80  dearly  that  1  would  accept  him  even  then.'* 

Mrs.  Kutherford  had  guessed  aright — Estollc  was  in  tho 
boudoir,  and  alone.  In  passing  he  had  caught  siglit  of  that 
tall,  majestic  figure,  to  be  known  by  its  stately  grace  among 
ten  thousand,  and  he  had  ent^r-d  at  once. 

She  was  standing  gazing  dreamily  out  at  the  wintery 
moonlight,  coldly  bright  on  the  glittering  snow.  At  the 
Bound  of  his  entrance  she  turned  to  greet  him  with  a  bright- 
ly welcoming  smile. 

"At  length,  Mr.  Bartram,"  she  said,  gayly,  **you  are 
civil  enough  to  come  and  speak  to  me.  This  is  the  first 
time  to-night,  is  it  not?" 

**  You  were  at  the  piano  when  I  came  in,  and  surround- 
ed, as  usual.  I  would  not  disturb  you,  of  course,  and  yet  £ 
have  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you  to-night.  Mad- 
emoiselle De  Montreuil." 

"  Indeed!"  She  said  it  lightly,  but  her  heart  gave  one 
great  bound,  and  then  seemed  suddenly  to  stop  beating. 
**  Is  it  that  you  return  to  Italy  speedily?  Mr.  Waldron 
has  anticipated  you — he  told  me  to-day." 

**  I  return  to  Italy,  mademoiselle — yes,  and  very  soon; 
never,  in  all  mortal  probability,  to  return.  And  before  I 
go  you  must  hear  all  my  folly — all  my  madness — all  my  pre- 
sumption; for,  Estelle  De  Montreuil,  I  have  lifted  my  eyes 
where  scores  of  worthier  men  have  lifted  theii's  in  vain — to 
your  peerless  face — and  1  love  you!" 

The  murder  was  out.  He  folded  his  arms,  stood  drawn 
up  to  his  full  height,  his  black  eyes  glowing,  his  lips  set — a 
lover  precious  grim. 

"  No  one  can  know  more  fully  than  I  io,  mademoiselle, 
how  insane  my  infatuation  i^.  I  know  that  you  have  re- 
fused the  highest  titles  of  the  old  world — rejected  men  whom 
all  the  earth  delights  to  honor.     But  not  one  among  them 


h  i«i. 


,4  fl 


270 


estella's  husband. 


,1     i 


ever  worshiped  you  with  the  passionate  adoration  that  filli 
my  heart.  When  I  tell  you  I  would  die  for  your  sake,  tha 
words  are  poor  and  weak;  but,  Estelle,  I  would!  1  love 
you  as  I  never  loved  woman,  as  1  never  will  love  again.  If 
I  dared  ask  you  for  love  in  return,  your  answer  would  be 
M).     Even  my  madness  is  confident  of  thaf 

He  stopped,  his  dark  face  rigid  as  stone,  the  chest  under 
his  folded  arms  heaving — a  strong  heart  in  strong  agony. 
She  had  not  moved  once;  she  stood  looking  steadily  out  at 
the  moonlit  snow,  not  whiter  than  her  perfect  face.  But 
now  she  turned  suddenly,  her  whole  countenance  lighting 
up  with  some  inward  fire,  as  he  had  never  seen  it  light 
before. 

'*  You  are  sure  1  will  say  No,"  she  repeated.  "  Oh, 
Alwyn!  have  you  never  thought  I  might  say  Yes?" 

"  Mademoiselle!"  he  turned  upon  her,  his  face  ghastly, 
his  voice  hoarse,  **  for  God's  sake  don't  stoop  to  trifle  with 
me!  Refuge  me  if  you  will,  but  be  merciful.  I  am  a  fool 
and  a  madman,  but  try  to  pity  and  spare!" 

She  smiled,  holding  out  both  white  hands. 

"  You  are  bent  on  having  JVo,  1  see.  Well,  my  sex  are 
all  contrary — I  will  not  say  it.  Alwyn  Bartram,  you  have 
been  blind  instead  of  mad,  or  you  would  have  known  long 
ago  that — I  love  you!" 

He  absolutely  staggered  back,  so  intense  was  the  shock 
— the  surprise.  Never  lor  one  instant  had  he  dared  dream 
of  such  bliss  as  this. 

"  Love  me!"  he  repeated,  bewildered.  **  You,  Estelle, 
love  me?" 

**  With  my  whole  heart  Oh,  Alwyn,  so  dearly — so 
long!" 

Her  head  drooped  upon  his  shoulder,  her  voice  was  lost 
in  a  sob.  All  her  strong  self -reliance  fell  away;  the 
weary  years  dropped  from  between  them — the  old  time 
came  back  with  an  ecstasy  that  was  almost  pain. 

He  realized  it  at  last — his  crown  of  life  was  won ;  he  hud 
succeeded  where  every  one  else  had  failed.  The  "  Refuser  " 
was  his.  He  caught  her  and  strained  her  to  him  with  a 
ioy  that  made  him  hull  frantic,  half  delirious — that  left 
him  speechless.     But  she  extricated  herself,  and  at  otiee. 

*'  That  will  do,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "  No  need  to 
prove  the  strength  of  your  affection  by  such  Bruin-like 
embraces.     And  some  one  maj  enter.     Praty  sit  down  hert 


i  '^St         I 


estella's  husband. 


Si71 


^hat  fillt 
ake,  th« 
1  love 
ain.  If 
vould  be 

st  under 
?  agony. 
iy  out  at 
je.  But 
lightiug 
it  light 


>* 


"Oh, 


ghastly, 
rifle  with 
\m  a  fool 


f  8ex  are 
you  have 
>wn  long 

le  shock 
d  dream 

Estelle, 

arly — so 

was  lost 
ay;  the 
■)\d  time 

he  had 
ef user  " 
wjlii  a 
hat  left 
B  otiee. 
need  to 
uin-like 
wn  hert 


comfortably,  Mr.  Bartram  and  drop  that  dazed  and  ec- 
static face.  One  would  think  some  wonderful  piece  of  good 
fortune  had  befallen  you." 

"  Earth  holds  no  other  fortune  half  so  good,  half  s^o 
great.  Oh,  Estelle,  I  can  not  realize  it.  You  love  me — 
you  f    My  darling,  if  I  am  not  dreaming,  say  it  again.'' 

But  Mile.  De  Montreuil  only  looked  at.  him  saucily. 

**  How  impassionedly  monsieur  makes  love — like  a  very 
hero  of  romance!  But  then  the  practice!  Used  you  to 
talk  to  Leonie  like  this,  sir?" 

"  Ah,  you  know  that  old  folly,  of  course.  And  that 
reminds  me,  Estelle,  of  the  miserable  story  of  the  past — 
the  story  you  must  hear." 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  it  already— it  is  of  your  wife. 
Leonie  told  me." 

*'  But  not  one  half  my  cold-blooded  cruelty — she  could 
not.  I  have  been  the  greatest  wretch  alive;  I  broke  the 
most  trusting,  the  teuJcrest  heart — "  He  stopped  short, 
his  voice  hoarse.  **  Not  even  to  you,  Estelle,  can  I  talk 
of  this.  I  drove  from  my  side  the  most  devoted  wife  ever 
man  was  blessed  with — drove  her  to  her  death.'* 

*'  How  did  she  die?"  Estelle  De  Montreuil  asked,  a 
tremor  in  her  clear  tones. 

**  I  do  not  know.  All  is  wrapped  in  miserable  uncei- 
tainty." 

And  then  he  began  and  passionately  poured  forth  the 
whole  story — his  early  infatuation  for  Leonie — his  loss  of 
fortune — her  marriage — his  own — the  story  of  Robert  Bar- 
tram— the  strong  evidence — his  belief  in  his  wife's  guilt — 
the  duel — the  dying  man's  vindication — his  fruitless  search 
— his  undying  repentance  and  remorse. 

The  count's  daughter  listened  to  it  all,  her  lovely  face 
Tery  pale,  her  large,  dark  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet.  She 
raised  them,  as  he  finished,  full  to  his  face. 

"  Then,  Mr.  Bartram,  you  do  not  know  whether  your 
wife  is  alive  or  dead?" 

"  1 6?o  know.  She  is  dead.  All  hope  that  she  might  be 
alive  ended  long  ago.  The  search  I  made  was  long  and 
thorough.  If  she  were  alive,  she  must  have  been  found. 
No;  Estella  is  dead.  She  will  never  stand  between  us, 
poor  child!" 

**  And  yet  I  am  not  convinced.  She  may  be  alive. 
Fancy,  Mr.  Bartram,  on  our  wedding-day,  your  first  wife 


272 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


appearing  to  stop  the  ceremony!  1  have  read  of  such 
things  often." 

*'  For  Heaven's  sake,  Estelle,  don't  raise  that  as  an  ob- 
jection!" he  exclaimed,  impetuously.  "  1  tell  you  it  is  im- 
possible. She  is  surely  dead.  And  yet,  if  you  wish  to 
make  conviction  certainty,  1  will  begin  the  search  over 
again — 1  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  trace  her  fate." 

"  And  if  you  find  her?"  she  slowly  said. 

**  I  will  never  find  her — I  will  not  admit  such  a  possibil- 
ity." 

**  Because  you  do  not  wish  to  do  so.  If  you  found  her 
to-morrow,  it  would  be  the  old  story  over  again,  with  me 
for  rival,  instead  of  my  cousin  Leonie." 

"  No,"  Alwyn  iiartram  said,  earnestly,  *'  1  trust  not — 1 
think  not.  Dearly  as  I  love  you,  Estelle — and  you  can 
never  know  how  dearly — I  should  leave  you  forever,  and 
try  to  do  my  duty  by  her.  Happiness  I  would  never  know 
apart  from  you,  but  I  would  never  willfully  look  upon  your 
face  again — never  willfully  admit  a  thought  of  you  into  the 
heart  that  should  be  my  wife's.  But  1  pray  God  that  1 
may  never  be  put  to  the  test.  Estella  is  nappy  in  heaven. 
Oh,  my  love,  let  me  be  happy  on  earth  with  you!" 

Again  she  gave  him  her  hand ;  again  the  light  of  her 
enchanting  smile  shone  full  upon  him. 

**  You  Siall.  If  I  may  not  call  you  husband,  1  shall  go 
to  my  grave  Estelle  De  Montreuil!  But  you  must  search 
for  your  lost  wife;  you  must  make  conviction  doubly  sure. 
Take  the  next  six  months,  Alwyn,  and  devote  them  to  the 
search.  1  do  not  tell  you  to  use  every  human  means  to 
discover  her,  if  by  any  possibility  she  be  still  alive.  I  know 
you  will  do  that.  If,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  nothing 
has  been  discovered,  then  come  to  Estelle  and  claim  her 
as  your  own." 

**  My  darling!"  He  lifted  the  slender  hand  to  his  lips 
in  a  dizzy  trance  of  joy.  '*  And  meantime  is  the  world  im 
know  of  this?" 

"  The  world  may  guess,  if  it  will;  you  and  I  will  tell  it 
nothing.  But,  monsieur,  are  you  quite  sure — quite  certain 
that  the  heart  you  offer  me  holds  no  other  lodger?  Has 
Madame  Rutherford  no  tiny  corner  of  what  she  once 
possessed  completely?  Is  it  all  my  own?  Remember,  we  De 
Montreuils  are  a  race  who  brook  no  rivals." 

**  You  have  none;  heart  and  soul  I  am  all  yours!    1  only 


ESTELLA'S    HUSBAKD. 


273 


>f  suck 

J  an  ob- 
t  is  im- 
pish to 
3h  over 
fate." 

possibil- 

und  her 
with  me 

t  not — 1 
you  can 
ver,  and 
er  know 
)on  your 
into  the 
L  that  1 
heaven. 

it  of  her 

shall  go 
it  search 
ily  sure. 

to  the 
Leans  to 

I  know 
nothing 
laim  her 

his  lips 
^orld  t« 

ill  tell  it 
certain 

ir?  Has 
le  once 

r,  we  De 

lonly 


wish  1  could  offer  you  what  you  so  nobly  give  me,  my 
peerless  love — a  heart  that  never  before  held  another  im- 
age!'' 

She  looked  at  him  with  gravely  earnest  eyes. 

"  That  is  your  mistake,  monsieur.  Permit  me  to  rec- 
tify it.  My  heart  has  held  another  image.  Eleven  years 
ago  1  was  as  passionately,  as  infatuatedly  in  love  as  it  is 
possible  for  any  romantic  girl  of  seventeen  to  be.  I  am 
eight-and-tweuty  now,  monsieur,  and  many  men  have 
loved  me,  or  said  so,  but  until  to-night  they  have  told  me 
in  vain;  for  the  man  1  loved  so  strongly  and  impetuously 
well-nigh  broke  my  heart,  and  all  those  years  have  scarcely 
healed  the  wound.  I  loved  him  very  dearly,  and  he — 
monsieur,  I  was  no  more  to  him  than  the  dirt  under  his 
feet." 

The  artist  listened  in  pale  surprise. 

"  He  was  a  brute — an  idiot — a  blind,  besotted  imbecile! 
Good  heavens!  that  the  man  should  exist  whom  you  could 
love  in  vain!  But  you  have  forgotten  this  cold-blooded 
in?  ate — you  love  only  me?" 

'  Only  you,"  with  her  most  radiant  smile.  **  Have  I 
not  said  so?  And  now  that  we  have  made  our  mutual 
confession  and  settled  our  future  plans,  suppose  we  return 
to  the  drawing-room?  They  will  certainly  miss  us,  and — 
who  knows? — they  may  guess  the  truth.  We  will  find 
Leonie  looking  carving-knives  and  strychnine,  1  am  posi- 
tive.    Come!" 

Without  waiting  for  him,  she  glided  away,  with  a  last 
brilliant  glance  and  smile,  and  mingled  calmly  with  her 
guests. 

But  he  did  not  follow  immediately.  He  lingered  behind, 
to  try  and  realize  his  supreme  bliss — to  try  and  still  the 
mad  throbbing  of  his  undisciplined  heart. 

He  tried  in  vain;  for  when  he  came  forth,  his  worn,  dark 
face  told  his  joyful  tale  to  all  beholders,  glowing  with  in- 
ward delight. 

*'Gad!  said  George  Waldron,  pulling  his  mustache 
meditatively,  **  Bartram's  been  hoisted  to  the  seventh 
heaven  since  he  went  into  that  little  room.  Look,  Mrs. 
Rutherford — look  at  that  ecstatic  face!  Your  cousin  was 
in  there,  too.  Do  you  suppose  that  she  has  had  anything 
to  do  with  it?  He  may  have  proposed— I  have  seen  it 
coming  for  some  days  past — and  ^e  may  have  refused; 


274 


estella's  husband. 


UK     ^. 


*    U   i 


I 


l'.<       t 

.'<.!! 


hi    S'''*^ 


but  the  killed  and  wounded  of  the  dazzling  Estelle  don't 
generally  look  like  that.  And  she  refuses  every  one,  of 
course. 

**  1  don't  perceive  the  *  of  course,' ''  Leonie  answered, 
spitefully.       Mr.  Bartram  is  not  accustomed  to  hear  No." 

**  He  heard  it  once,  though,  didn't  he?  Oh,  you  have  very 
much  to  answer  for,  Mrs.  Rutherford!  And  you  think  she 
may  possibly  have  said  Yes?  And  1  had  made  up  my  mind 
that  she  was  going  to  live  and  die  one  of  the  vestal  virgins. 
She  refuses  a  Russian  prince  and  an  English  earl,  and 
hosts  of  counts  and  marquises,  and,  1  dare  say,  if  I  asked 
her,  she  would  refuse  me ;  and  here  she  accepts  Alwyn 
Bartram  at  the  first  word!  But  it  always  was  that  beg- 
gar's luck,  with  his  jaundiced  complexion,  and  black 
whiskers,  and  gloomy,  brigandish  air.  You  women  like 
that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you? — the  Edgar  Ravens  wood  style, 
you  know.  It's  a  pleasant  combination  of  liver  complaint 
and  indigestion,  but  the  yellower  and  sulkier  a  man  looks 
the  safer  he  is  to  be  adored  bv  tin:  whole  sex. " 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  heard  v.uy  little  of  this  plamtive 
reproach.  Her  black  eyes  were  lightening  dangerously, 
her  white  teeth  were  vindietivoly  set,  as  she  followed  Al- 
wyn Bartram,  with  a  passionple,  yearning  glance.  She 
had  lost  him  forever. 

She  saw  him  join  her  i^al  I  /ore  her  eyes;  she  saw  the 
happy  light  that  transfori/ied  his  handsome  face;  she  saw 
Estelle  mak'  place  for  him  beside  her,  with  a  shy,  glad 
smile. 

'*  She  liaa  ?)Coopted  him!"  she  hissed;  '' she  will  be  his 
wife.     They  have  settled  it  all!" 

**  Ah,  very  likely!"  drawled  Mr.  Waldron,  sauntering 
away.  "  But  before  she  becomes  Mrs.  Bartram  the  second, 
hadn't  your  brilliant  cousin  better  make  sure  Mrs. 
Bartram  the  first  is  dead  and  done  for?  Whisper  in  her 
pretty  ear,  Leonie,  the  motto  of  the  fierce  Kirkpatrick, 
when  he  brandished  his  terrible  claymore  over  the  bleeding 
Ked  Comyn,  *  1 7nak  siker.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   FALL  OF   THE   THDNDER-BOLT. 

The  search  began — brisk  and  thorough.     Money  flowed 
like  water  through  Mr«  Bertram's  fingers;  the  best  detect- 


estella's  husband. 


275 


le  don't 
f  one,  ol 

iswered, 
arNo." 
lave  very 
hink  she 
ny  mind 
virgins. 
)arl,  and 
:  I  asked 
;8  Alwyn 
:hat  beg- 
d  black 
nen  like 
)od  style, 
omplaint 
lan  looks 

plaintive 
gerously, 
owed  Al- 
3e.      She 

i  saw  the 
she  saw 
3hy,  glad 

11  be  his 

untering 
e  second, 
ire  Mrs. 
er  in  her 
ipatrick, 
bleeding 


3y  flowed 
it  detect- 


ives in  New  York  were  again  on  the  trail,  lost  over  ten  years 
ago;  no  stone  was  left  unturned,  lie  worked  himself  with 
the  best  of  them.  He  went  once  more  to  Chelsea — once 
more  he  sought  out  Norah  Styles  in  her  spinster  retreat. 
But  he  might  as  well  have  appealed  to  the  Sphinx  us  to 
the  stony-faced  vestal  who  grimly  confronted  him. 

**  1  know  nothing  whatsoever  of  ymir  wife,  Mr.  Alwyn 
Bartram,^'  she  said,  inflexibly;  "  and  if  I  did  I  wouldn't 
tell  you.     There!'' 

He  returned  to  New  York.  Was  he  disappointed?  Did 
he  really  wish  to  find  Estella?  Not  for  one  instant  did  he 
play  hypocrite  to  himself,  or  the  woman  he  loved,  by  pre- 
tending to  answer  yes.  He  had  no  wish  to  find  her  alive — 
he  had  never  lovv<id  her,  it  was  hardly  likely  ho  could  begin 
now.  But  he  did  wish  to  clear  up  the  mystery  that  shroud- 
ed her  fate — to  know,  when  his  lovely  Estelle  Ifiid  he;  hand 
in  his  for  life,  that  no  other  woman  on  the  wide  earth  had 
a  stronger  claim  upon  him  than  she. 

The  weeks  went  by,  the  months  strung  themselves  out — 
three  had  gone.  Spring  was  coming,  and  the  Count  De 
Montreuil  was  beginning  to  look  wi^jtfully  at  his  idolized 
daughter,  and  talk  of  returning  to  Paris. 

She  had  been  so  restless  all  the  ten  j'earj  he  had  known 
her  that  this  new  content  of  hers  puzzled  him  strangely. 
Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  saw  .he  .lar^rlv  handsome 
artist  ever  by  her  side,  and  ever  most  welcon.-e  there,  and 
he  could  hard'y  be  blind  to  what  wus  m  plain. 

"  She  has  fallen  in  love  at  last,"!;.)  said  to  himself,  with 
a  shrug,  "  and  with  this  American  arl  isst.  She  will  marry 
him,  I  dare  say;  but  1  ish  she  wculd  return  to  Paris  first. 
1  grow  tired  of  this  ^N    /  York." 

He  spoke  his  wisiKa  aloud  at  last,  and-  to  his  surprise, 
Estelle  acquiesced  at    ucje. 

*'  Very  well,  papa."  she  said;  "  it  shall  be  as  you  wish. 
I  will  prepare  for  0  parture  immediately. " 

Alwyn  Bartram  .leard  the  news  with  dismay. 

*'  At  lease  I  may  accompany  you,"  he  pleaded.  *'  The 
search  can  j>o  on  as  well  without  me.  1  can  not  live  apart 
from  you,  Estelle  I" 

Mis-^  De  Montreuil  shook  her  head  resolutely. 

*'  You  must  stay  b'^hind  until  the  six  months  have  fully 
expired — then  come.  Be  patient,  Alwyn;  it  is  but  hide 
over  two  months  now. " 


-  V 


ft      I  '^ 


rJ't'rt  f. 


27« 


estella's  husband. 


**  An  eternity — separated  from  you!  Don't  be  mercfleaa, 
Estelle." 

But  Estelle  ivas  mercilesB  on  this  point,  and  at  last  the 
despairing  lover  had  to  yield. 

**  And  how  soon  do  you  go?"  he  asked. 

**  In  a  fortnight,  at  most.  Ijike  your  true-born  Pariv- 
ian,  papa  is  in  purgatory  when  not  in  Paris.  And,  when 
you  reach  France,  you  shall  play  suzerain  and  I  vassal.  Be 
content  and  wait." 

He  lingered  long  that  evening,  with  a  strange  reluctance 
to  leave  her.  Never  had  she  been  so  gentle,  so  sweet,  so 
lovely,  so  surely  his  own.  He  lingered  late,  and  walked 
home,  through  the  April  moonlight,  in  the  blissful  trance 
that  was  his  normal  state  now. 

The  gas  burned  low  in  his  room  when  he  entered,  whis- 
tling gayly  a  popular  air,  and  he  saw  a  letter  Iving  awaiting 
him  on  the  table.  He  turned  it  up,  lifted  the  letter,  and 
glanced  carelessly  at  the  superscription.  On  the  instant 
he  staggered  back,  with  a  strong  cry,  holding  it  from  him, 
his  dark  face  blanching  to  an  awful  leaden  white  from 
hrow  to  chin;  for  it  was  in  the  handwriting  of  his  lost  wife 
— the  round,  school-girlish  hand  he  remembered  so  well, 
and  there  in  the  corner  were  her  initials. 

He  stood  paralyzed — his  face  livid,  his  eyes  starting, 
gazing  upon  it  as  though  it  had  been  a  death's-head.  Then, 
in  a  passion  of  sudden  fury,  he  tore  it  open  and  devoured 
its  brief  contents: 

**  My  Husband, — 1  live.  Years  ago,  no  doubt,  you 
gave  me  up  for  dead.  1  never  meant  to  undeceive  you — I 
never  meant  to  address  a  word  or  a  line  to  you  again. 
Though  1  were  dying  of  hunger  at  your  door,  I  never  meant 
to  lift  my  eyes  to  your  face  and  ask  a  crumb  from  you.  I 
know  who  you  have  searched  for  me — I  know  that  after  ten 
vears  you  have  returned,  and  are  searching  for  me  again. 
1  know  your  motive,  too — you  wish  to  marry  again.  You 
love  another  woman,  as  you  once  loved  Leonie  Rutherford 
— you  wish  to  obtain  proof  of  my  death,  and  make  her  your 
wife.  You  never  cared  for  me;  when  you  read  this,  and 
know  1  live,  and  stand  between  you  and  your  idol  a  second 
time,  you  will  hate  me.  Be  it  so — 1  will  still  do  my  duty. 
My  only  crime  in  the  past,  my  only  crime  in  the  present,  is 
loving  you  too  well.     A  broken  heart,  a  ruined  life — all 


estella's  husband. 


277 


merciless, 

it  last  the 


3rn  Pari*- 
.nd,  when 
issal.     Be 

•eluctance 
I  sweet,  80 
id  walked 
f  ul  trauce 

red,  whis- 
j  awaiting 
etter,  and 
he  instant 
'rom  him, 
hite  from 
3  lost  wife 
d  so  well, 

starting. 
Then, 
devoured 


)ubt,  you 

re  you — I 

ou  again. 

rer  meant 

you.     I 

after  ten 

ue  again. 

n.     You 

jtherford 

her  your 

this,  and 

a  second 

ny  duty. 

resent,  is 

life— ail 


the  wrong  and  misery  of  the  past — have  not  hoc n  t^trong 
enough  to  conquer  that  love.  But  you  can  not  marry  this 
other  woman — this  French  heiress — for  I,  your  hiwful  wife, 
before  God  and  man,  still  live.  1  break  my  ten  years 
silence  to  warn  you.  You  need  not  fear  me.  1  will  never 
appear  before  you  or  her — never  interfere  with  you  in  any 
way  save  this.  But  you  will  not  do  her,  sinew  you  love  her, 
so  great  a  wrong.  Ilemember,  though  the  laws  of  the  land 
may  set  you  free,  who  has  salt],  '  lie  liuit  putteth  away 
his  wife  and  taketh  another  committeiii  advlhry. '  I  do  not 
reproach  you  for  the  past — I  ask  nothtuj;  i'or  the  future 
from  the  husband  who  never  loved  me;  but  if  you  have 
any  mercy  for  me,  or  this  woman  you  wish  to  wed,  then 
tell  her  all,  and  leave  her.  Tell  her  your  wife  still  lives — 
the  wife  you  detest,  but  yours  still — the  wifn  who  may 
never  look  upon  your  face  until  you  meet  her  at  the  Judg- 
ment Seat,  but  who  now,  as  then,  will  still  claim  you  for 
her  husband,  in  life  and  in  death. 

'*  ESTELLA  BaRTRAM.'* 

He  dropped  the  letter.  His  face  fell  forward  on  the 
table,  with  one  long,  unearthly  groan.  It  was  the  bitter 
wail  of  a  soul  in  its  last  fierce  death-throe.  Then  he  lay 
still. 

The  hours  went  on;  the  night  passed ;  the  morning  came. 
He  had  never  stirred;  he  lay  there,  like  a  dead  man,  wres- 
tling in  his  own  strong  heart  with  his  strong  agony.  The 
worst  had  come:  he  had  lost  her — his  beautiful  Estelle — 
the  light  of  his  life — his  bride  The  April  morning  broke 
jubilant  and  bright.  The  sparkling  sunshine  filled  his  room; 
the  busy  city  woke  up;  its  noise,  its  life,  was  astir  around 
him. 

He  lifted  his  head  at  last,  and  you  saw  that  the  battle 
was  fought  and  the  bitter  victory  won.  His  face  was  set 
in  an  awful  calm,  but  the  agony  of  this  one  night  had  left 
it  worn,  and  haggard,  and  hollow-eyed. 

Passion  and  duty  had  battled  fiercely,  but  duty  hail  won 
the  day.  His  wife  lived,  and  Est.elle  Dc  Montrcuil  was  as 
dead  to  him  as  though  she  lay  in  her  coffin. 

He  drew  forth  hi«  watch;  it  was  past  nine.  He  arose 
and  shook  himself,  as  though  he  threw  off  a  burden,  and 
made  a  careful  toilet,  with  dull,  mechanical  precision. 

Civilization  has  its  minor  uses,  too.     Our  hearts  may 


27S 


BSTELLA'S    HUSBAND. 


(1 

iti: 


ii't 


h  1-1 


''5|tr  i 


u 


[I 


break,  but  our  dress,  when  we  face  our  brother  man,  must 
not  bo  disordered.  The  days  for  sAckcloth  and  ashes  and 
wailing  aloud  over  our  dead  have  gone  by. 

He  had  lost  all  that  made  life  worth  having;  in  a  sunlit 
sea  his  one  bark  of  hope  had  gone  headlong  down  forever, 
but  when  he  went  forth  into  the  busy  outer  world,  it  would 
have  been  a  close  observer  who  could  have  read  the  tale  of 
the  dreary  wreck  in  his  set,  somber  face. 

He  found  Mile.  De  Montreuil  at  home,  alone,  and  at 
leisure.  She  stood  by  the  window  of  the  sunshiny  morn- 
ing-room, amid  her  roses  and  geraniums,  and  canary  birds, 
in  a  crisp  muslin  robe,  with  azure  ribbons  fluttering  about 
her,  and  rose-geranium  leaves  in  her  velvet  hair.  She 
stood  f T-esh,  and  bright,  and  beautiful  in  her  glorious  wom- 
anhood— a  "  queen  of  noble  nature's  crowning  " — and  she 
turned  to  greet  him  with  outstretched  hand,  and  a  smile 
before  whose  cloudless  radiance  the  sunshine  paled. 

"  How  delightfully  early  monsieur  comes!  Of  course  you 
have  not  breakfasted?  I  am  waiting  impatiently  for  the 
bell,  for  I  am  most  unromantically  hungry.  But,  Alwyn," 
in  quick  alarm,  *'  something  has  happened,  surely.  How 
strangely  you  look!" 

**  Something  has  happened,'*  he  said,  in  a  voice  steady 
and  deep — '*  something  that  in  one  brief  ni^ht  has  changed 
me  from  the  most  blessed  to  the  most  miserable  of  men. 
Read  this — it  will  tell  you  all. " 

He  handed  her  the  fatal  letter.  She  took  it,  turned 
slowly  away  from  him  to  the  window,  and  read  it  from  be- 
ginning to  end. 

Her  hand  dropped  heavily  by  her  side;  dead  silence  fell. 
He  stood  near  her,  but  he  could  not  see  her  face;  it  waa 
averted,  and  her  whole  body  was  rigid  and  still. 

*'  For  God's  sake,  speak  to  me!"  he  broke  out,  passion- 
ately. *'  Say  one  word,  Estelle.  Your  silence  drives  me 
mad!" 

She  turned  slowly  round,  the  letter  still  in  her  hand,  her 
face  very  pale,  her  eyes  glittering  and  quite  dry.  But  the 
voice  that  answered  him  had  lost  the  clear,  silvery  ring  that 
made  its  contralto  tones  like  liquid  music. 

*'  I  have  known  it  from  the  first.  I  have  felt  it  here,'^ 
tapping  lightly  on  her  dainty  corsage.  "  Our  dream  bus 
been  very  sweet,  Alwyn,  but  it  must  end." 

He  turned  from  her  with  a  sort  of  fierce  crv — th»^  «in- 


E8TELLA*S    HUSBAND. 


379 


'  man,  must 
1  ashes  and 

;  in  a  sunlit 
wn  forever. 
Id,  it  would 
1  the  tale  of 

one,  and  at 
3hiny  morn- 
anary  birds, 
;eritig  about 
hair.  She 
jrious  wom- 
" — and  she 
ind  a  smile 
lied. 

f  course  you 
ntly  for  the 
it,  Alwyn," 
irely.     How 

'^oice  steady 
las  changed 
ble  of  men. 

:  it,  turned 
it  from  be- 

silence  fell. 
:ace;  it  was 

ut,  passion- 
e  drives  me 


r  hand,  her 
But  the 
ry  ring  that 


t  it  here, "' 
dream  liua 

v — tht^  'in- 


earthly  sound  of  a  wild  animal  goaded  to  madness  by  intol- 
erable pain. 

*'  It  is  easy  for  you — you,  who  are  an  angel;  but  for  me 
— for  me,  with  a  maii^s  rebellious,  passionate  heart —  Oh, 
Estelle,  my  love,  my  life!  1  ca?i  not  give  you  up!*' 

She  covered  her  face,  trembling  all  over  at  the  frantic 
anguish  of  that  cry. 

*'  She  should  not  have  spoken!'*  he  broke  out  incoher- 
ently. "  She  has  been  as  dead  for  the  past  ten  years;  she 
should  have  remained  dead  to  me  to  the  end.  What  right 
has  she  to  stand  between  me  and  my  heavenly  dream  of 
bliss?  I  never  cared  for  her,  and  she  knows  it.  How  dare 
she  interfere  now?" 

"  She  is  your  wife." 

The  sweet,  sad  voice,  mournful  and  low,  fell  on  his  fierce 
spirit  as  the  harp  of  David  on  the  fury  of  Saul,  the  king. 
She  said  no  more,  and  a  long  silence  fell. 

Vehemently  he  paced  up  and  down;  cold  and  pale  she 
stood,  looking  out  at  the  mocking  sunshine.  Her  soft, 
tender  tones  again  were  first  to  break  the  spell. 

**  She  is  your  wife — your  much- wronged,  long-suffering 
wife.  You  will  go  to  her,  Alwyn,  will  you  not?  Think 
how  long  and  how  dearly  she  has  loved  you!"  Her  voice 
trembled.  *'  Oh,  surely  such  devotion  as  hers  deserves 
some  reward!" 

**  You  are  right!"  He  stopped  suddenly  in  his  excited 
walk.  **  You  are  my  good  angel  now,  as  ever.  I  saw  my 
duty  clear  and  plain  last  night,  through  all  the  passionate 
struggle  of  love  and  despair  that  well-nigh  drove  me  mad, 
and  I  resolved  to  follow  it.  But  the  sight  of  you,  this 
morning,  awoke  all  my  madness  again.  MypoorEstella!" 
He  leaned  against  the  window,  his  arms  folded  over  his 
heaving  chest,  his  colorless  face  full  of  untold  despair. 
**  She  deserves  a  better  fat©  than  to  share  such  a  wrecked 
life  as  mine!" 

**  Then  you  wiM  seek  her  out,  and  at  once?" 

*'  Yes,"  he  said,  drearily;  "  it  is  all  that  is  left  me  to  do 
now.  1  will  seek  her  out;  I  will  talw  her  back  to  Italy, 
and.  Heaven  helping  me,  I  will  do  my  best  to  atone  for 
the  past.  Happiness  I  will  never  know  again.  Your 
face,  my  Estelle,  will  lie  on  my  heart  to  my  dying  day; 
bat  when  we  part  here,  1  will  never  willfully  look  upon  it 


i»  t<i 


i 


f 


*  J  "    " 


I  I'll 


'I 


't'l 
'f  1 


,'••*' 
«« 


280 


estella's  husband. 


B'  ^^ 


'    I 


again.  For  you — yoti  will  forget  me,  and  hlesa  the  life  of 
a  better  man/' 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  turned  away. 

And  very  clear  and  sweet  the  low  vo.';e  of  Eatelle  De 
Montreuil  replied: 

**  I  told  you  once,  and  I  tell  you  again,  I  will  never  call 
earthly  man  husband,  if  I  may  not  call  you.  As  1  love  you 
now,  I  will  love  you  all  my  life.  My  best  wishes  and 
prayers  for  your  happiness  will  be  with  you  while  this  heart 
beats." 

Again  silence.  Alwyii  Bartram  could  not  speak,  but 
the  dark,  despairing  eyes  looking  out  at  the  street  were 
burning  and  dry. 

"  You  will  seek  your  wife  at  once,*'  Estelle  said,  softly. 
**  She  gives  her  address,  I  see,  at  the  end  of  the  letter. 
Here  it  is,  and  " — a  momentary  hesitation — "  when  you 
see  her — when  all  is  explained — when  you  are  reunited — 
you  will  come  and  say  good-bye  to  me?  1  am  miserably 
weak,  but  1 — 1  want  to  see  you  once  again.-' 

**  I  will  come,"  he  answered,  hoarsely — *'  once  more^ 
and  for  the  last  time.     Until  then — '* 

He  turned  away  abruptly.  A  second  later,  and  the 
street-door  closed  after  nim;  another  second,  and  the 
breakfast-bell,  for  which  mademoiselle,  half  an  hour  ago, 
had  been  waiting  so  impatiently,  rang;  but  mademoiselle 
did  not  descend.  Mrs.  Rutherford  breakfasted  alone,  and 
her  cousin  hid  herself  in  her  room  the  livelong  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE     PAST     REDEEMED. 

It  was  a  forlon  tenement  house,  away  down  by  the  East 
River,  and  the  afternoon  light  was  low  in  the  red  west  when 
Alwyn  Bartram  reached  it.  lie  had  been  there  before,  and 
on  the  very  threshold,  with  a  strange  inconsistency,  his  feet 
had  turned  away. 

It  would  have  been  easier  for  him  to  have  led  a  forlorn 
hope,  amid  the  deadly  belching  of  cannon,  than  to  stand 
face  to  face  once  more  with  his  unloved,  his  much-wronged 
wife. 

He  made  his  way  up  the  dreary  staircase,  dark  already, 
along  the  dreary  passages,  and  stopped  at  the  room  a  little 
ilip-shod  girl  (his  cicerone)  pointed  out 


ESTELLA*S    HUSBAND. 


281 


nee  more. 


*'  The  larly  lives  hero,"  she  said.  '*  Knock  loud,  for 
motliiu*  8ay»  sho's  dick,  and  may  bu  she's  asluep. " 

lin  stood  a  moment  aftcM*  tho  Hli))-sli()d  fairy  liad  bounded 
?tway,  tlien  lifted  his  hand,  and  knocked  heavily. 

An  instant,  and  iho  door  was  opunod  by  a  poorly  dressed 
woman  with  a  baby  in  lier  arms. 

"  Mrs.  Bartram  lives  herey"  he  said,  slowly. 

"  Yes,  sir,'^  the  woman  answered,  ''  she's  here.  Will 
you  walk  in?  She's  poorly,  and  she's  lying  down,  but 
she's  awake. " 

He  followed  her  in,  his  heart  beating  like  a  muffled 
drum.  The  twilight  filled  the  room;  a  dull  red  fire  glowed 
in  the  grate,  diffusing  heat,  hut  little  light.  On  a  lounge, 
in  front  of  this  fire,  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl,  half  buried 
amid  pillows,  lay  a  female  figure — his  wife! 

**  I  11  step  down-stairs,  Mrs.  Bartram,"  the  woman  said, 
**  while  you  talk  to  the  gentleman.  Do  you  want  the  lamp 
lighted?" 

"  No,"  said  a  stilled  voice  from  among  the  pillows. 
**  there  is  light  enough.  1  will  knock  on  the  floor  when  I 
want  you,  Mrs.  Gray." 

Estella's  very  voice!  And  after  all  these  weary  years, 
these  commonplace  words  were  the  first  he  heard  her  speak. 

The  woman  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door.  Then, 
Mr.  Bartram,  standing  motionless  like  some  tall,  black 
ghost,  advanced  and  knelt  down  beside  the  lounge. 

**  Estella,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  after  all  these  years — at 
last!  And  this  is  how  1  find  you — poor,  and  ill,  and  alone. 
How  shall  1  answer  to  God  and  man  for  the  wrong  I  have 
done  you?"  ^ 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  He  could  hear  her 
aobbing;  he  could  see  the  tears  that  fell  like  rain. 

"  Only  forgive  me!"  she  said,  in  the  same  stifled  voice. 
''  Do  not  altogether  hate  me  for  what  I  have  done!  Ob, 
Alwyn,  I  have  suffered  bitterly  since  we  parted,  but  ^he 
thought  that  I  must  again  stand  between  you  and  happi- 
ness— the  thought  that  you  may  learn  to  hate  me — has 
been  the  bitterest  suffering  of  all." 

*'  My  poor  little  Essie!"  He  drew  her  hands  from  be- 
fore her  face  and  tried  to  see  it.  **  Let  me  look  at  you— 
let  me  see  once  more  the  faithful,  loving  face— always  so 
tender,  so  true.  And  you  love  me  still,  my  poor  little  wife 
— I  who  have  been  the  greatest  villain  on  earth  to  you?" 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


I^IM    12.5 


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^   1^    12.0 


1^ 

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1.25 

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1»» 

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/. 


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Sciences 

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23  WIST  MAIN  STRIET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)873-4503 


4 


^ 


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^4^ 


;^2 


estella's  husband. 


!i  '' 


'*  My  husband,"  her  hand  slipped  into  his,  and  held  it 
close,  **  when  I  cease  to  love  you  I  shall  be  dead." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  the  pale  face  he  could 
hardly  see — his  heart  too  full  at  the  moment  for  words. 

"  It  was  hard  to  have  to  write  that  letter,"  she  whis- 
pered; **  but  1  could  not  let  you  commit  that  crime,  Al- 
wyn.  Oh,  my  darling  I"  clasping  him  close,  "  say  you  for- 
give ma  for  what  I  have  done!" 

"  /  forgive  you — you  who  have  done  no  wrong?  You 
mock  me,  Esteila!  The  only  thing  I  find  it  hard  to  for- 
give is  your  long  silence.  Why  could  you  not  be  merciful 
and  speak  before,  Essie?" 

She  sighed  drearily. 

'*  1  was  so  worn  out,  so  heartsick,  all  faith,  and  trust, 
and  hope,  dead!  1  could  not  have  undergone  it  again. 
And — you  did  not  love  me.  You  had  no  faith  in  me,  no 
love  for  me;  you  sought  me  from  a  hard  sense  of  duty,  and 
— I  could  not  go.  Don't  let  us  speak  of  it — don't  let  ua 
speak  of  the  past — I  could  not  bear  it.  Yet  it  is  very  good 
of  you  to  come  here;  but  you  must  not  come  again.  Let 
me  go  my  own  way — 1  will  never  interfere  with  you  more 
— and  try  to  be  happy  with  your  art.  Go  back  to  Italy — 
I  know  you  have  been  there — and  try  to  forget  the  great 
mistake  of  your  life — your  marriage  with  me." 

She  disengaged  herself  from  him,  and  half  sat  up,  speak- 
ing firmly,  steadily.  For  one  second  of  time  the  arch- 
tompter  whispered,  "  Take  her  at  her  word — your  life 
linked  to  her  will  be  that  of  the  galley-slave,  a  burden  to 
both."    But  it  was  only  for  a  second. 

**  Never,"  he  said,  steadily,  *'  so  help  me  Heaven!  My 
wife  shall  go  .vith  me  wherever  I  go — never  on  earth  to 
part  again!  Oh,  Esteila,  I  have  been  a  wretch,  a  scoun- 
drel, in  the  past,  but  with  all  my  might  I  will  strive  to 
atone  now.  Let  me  redeem  that  miserable  past — let  mtt 
devote  my  whole  future  life  to  you.  Forgive  and  forgei 
what  is  gone,  my  tender-hearted  little  Essie,  and  all  thai 
the  most  devoted  husband  ever  was  to  his  wife  I  will  strive 
to  be  to  you. " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then — 

*'  Will  you  promise  to  love  me?"  she  asked,  softly. 

*'  1  promise.  I  haven't — 1  don't — but  I  will!  Whc 
could  help  loving — in  time — a  wife  so  sweet,  so  patient,  so 
long -suffering,  so  true?" 


'^'^i««i4 


estella's  husband. 


283 


md  held  it 

m 

36  he  could 
words. 
'  she  whis- 
crime,  Al- 
ay  you  for- 

>ng?  You 
ard  to  f  or- 
)e  merciful 


and  trust; 
e  it  again. 
1  In  me,  no 
I  duty^  and 
ion't  let  us 
8  very  good 
.gain.  Let 
I  you  more 
^  to  Italy- 
it  the  great 

up,  speak- 
the  arch- 

—your  life 
burden  to 

iven!    My 

earth  to 

a  scoua- 

strive  to 

it — let  mtt 

ind  forgei 

Id  all  thav 

will  strive 


>ftly. 

lill!     Whc 
)atient,  so 


'*And  Mrs.  Rutherford,"  Estella  said,  abruptly;  "is 
she  quite  forgotten?" 

**  Quite — long  and  many  a  year  ago.  When  I  lost  you, 
1  ceased  to  care  for  her.'* 

"  And  this  other — her  cousin — you  do  love  her?" 

She  could  feel  the  strong  shudder  that  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot 

"For  pity's  sake,  Estella,  don't  let  us  speak  of  that! 
Take  me  for  what  1  am;  but  not  even  to  you,  least  of  all 
to  you,  can  1  speak  of  her.  Let  me  forget  if  I  can — she  is 
dead  to  me  from  this  day.  If  I  had  only  known  you  lived 
before  I  met  her  I" 

The  strong  passion  of  that  suppressed  cry  thrilled  her  to 
the  heart. 

**  I  am  sorry — I  am  sorry!  Oh,  Alwyn,  perhaps  it  might 
have  been  better  if  1  had  never  written  that  letter!" 


(I 


No!"  he  said,  steadily,  "  a  thousand  times  no!  Right 
is  right — you  did  what  you  should  have  done,  Estella. 
Don't  fear  for  me — I  will  forget  Ler,  if  1  can — my  wife,  I 
trust,  will  have  my  whole  heart.  I  will  see  her  once  again 
to  say  farewell — then,  Estella,  I  will  cease  to  remember 
there  is  another  woman  on  earth  but  yourself.  You  will 
leave  this  wretched  place  at  once — you  will  come  with  me 
now,  will  you  not?" 
*'  You  are  very  good;  but,  Alwyn,  you  will  rApent" 

*'  Never!  Trust  me,  my  wife,  all  unworthy  as  1  am. 
Trust  me,  as  you  have  forgiven  me — you  shall  never  regret 
it  again.  You  will  come  with  me  immediately,  then?  1 
can  not  talk  to  you — I  can  not  endure  to  see  you — in  thi^ 
wretched  place. " 

**  Not  to-night,"  Estella  answered.  **  I  can  not  go  at 
once.  Give  me  till  to-morrow — you  shall  know  why  later. 
Come  for  me,  if  you  will,  the  day  after.  And  now  I  will 
send  you  away.  I  am  not  very  strong,  as  you  see,  and 
this  interview  has  worn  me  out 

He  kissed  the  pale  forehead  and  arose  at  once. 

"  You  have  not  even  let  me  see  yoa,  Essie,  and  after  ten 
— nay,  eleven  long  years  of  parting." 

"  Ah,  that  will  come  all  too  soon.  Think  what  sad 
changes  ten  years  of  loneliness,  and  poverty,  and  labor, 
toust  work,  and  don't  come  back — don't  ever  ask  to  see 
toe.     The  contrast  between  me  and— Aer  will  be  too  cruel." 


284 


estella's  husband. 


Again  that  shiver  shook  him — any  allusion  to  the  lovely 
bride  he  had  lost  brought  with  it  the  bitterness  of  death. 

**  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  will  call  for  you/*  he  said, 
briefly.  **  Good-night,  Estella,  since  you  will  it  so,  and 
take  care  of  yourself  for  my  sake — until  then.*' 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  A  moment  latrr,  and  ha 
was  gone. 

Straight  through  the  silvery  spring  twilight,  he  went  to 
the  house  of  Count  De  Montreuil.  He  never  stopped  to 
think. 

**  Since  it  must  be,  'twere  well  done  quickly,"  he  mut- 
tered, between  set  white  teeth.  "  Let  me  say  farewell  at 
once,  and  tear  her  image  out  of  my  heart  forever,  if  I  can. 
Ah,  *  i/ 1  can  * — so  easy  to  say,  so  terribly  hard  to  do!" 

He  reached  the  house,  rang  the  bell,  and  was  admitted 
at  once.  Mile,  de  Montreuil  was  in  the  library  and  alone, 
and  to  the  library  at  once  he  strode. 

He  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  take  in  the  pict- 
ure— a  picture  never  to  be  forgotten.  She  lay  back  in  a 
great  carved  and  gilded  chair,  tha  gas-light  flooding  her 
with  soft  glory,  her  bright  silk  dress  shimmering  and  flash- 
ing, misty  lace  fluttering  and  jewels  sparkling  about  her. 
She  was  reading,  but  she  dropped  her  book  and  rose  up 
quickly  as  she  saw  him.  How  dazzliugly  beautiful  she 
looked,  now  that  he  had  lost  her  forever!  And  he  was  an 
artist,  with  all  an  artist's  passion  for  the  beautiful  and  the 
luxurious.  He  thought  of  the  scene  he  had  left,  not  an 
hour  ago,  and  the  contrast,  as  his  wife  had  said,  was  in- 
deed cruel. 

**  Well,"  Miss  De  Montreuil  breathed,  **  you  have  seen 
her?" 

**  I  have  seen  her." 

He  advanced,  and  leaned  heavily  against  the  marble 
mantel.  In  the  hush  that  fell  between  them,  he  could 
hear  Leonie  in  the  drawing-room,  touching  the  piano  softly 
and  plaintively,  and  the  words  of  her  melancholy  song, 
**  Love  not!  love  not!  oh,  hapless  sons  of  clay!" 

*'  Then  nothing  remains  for  us  but  to  shake  hands  and 
part,"  EsteJle  De  Montreuil  said,  in  a  steady  voice.  "  You 
have  my  best  wishes  for  your  happiness,  Mr.  Bartram." 

The  name  stung  him — it  had  always  been  Alwyn  of  late. 
But  these  little  things  were  only  part  of  the  dull  despair  at 
jiis  heart. 


-««» 


;he  lovely 
death. 
'  he  said, 
t  so,  and 

V,  and  ha 

0  went  to 
;opped  to 

'  he  mut- 

i  re  well  at 
if  I  can. 

0  do!" 
admitted 
nd  alone, 

1  the  pict- 
back  in  a 
ding  her 
md  flash- 
)out  her. 
d  rose  up 
itifu^  she 
le  was  an 
1  and  the 
t,  not  an 
,  was  in- 

lave  seen 


marble 
le  could 
no  softly 
»ly  song, 

ands  and 
"You 
■ram." 
of  late, 
espair  at 


estella's  husband. 


285 


(i 


•( 


Tou  are  very  good,'^  he  said,  without  looking  at  her. 

1  have  come  straight  from  her  to  you.  1  found  her  poor, 
and  sick,  and  alone.  The  story  of  the  past  ten  years  she 
has  not  told  me,  but  I  can  guess  what  it  must  have  been. 
She  has  forgiven  me — she  loves  me  still — 1  can  say  no 
more.  I  told  her  I  would  see  you  this  once  and  never 
again,  and  1  will  keep  my  word. " 

He  did  not  lift  his  head — his  arm  was  thrown  over  the 
mantel,  he  leaned  heavily  against  it,  his  face  white  and 
drawn.  She  drew  a  long,  shivering  breath,  then  went  up 
close  to  him. 

**  You  will  devote  your  life  to  her — you  will  forget  our 
brief  dream?  You  will  make  her  happy — you  will  re- 
deem the  past?'* 

"Godhelpingme,  I  wilir' 

**  And  1,"  Estelle  said,  very  gently,  very  sadly,  "  will 
pray  for  you  both.  Some  day,  years  and  years  from  this, 
when  your  heart  is  all  hers,  when  I  am  but  a  memory  and 
a  shadow,  we  may  meet  and  laugh  over  our  old  folly.  Our 
heads  may  be  silvered,  our  faces  withered  and  old,  but  the 
time  will  come." 

"  The  time  will  never  come."  He  lifted  his  head,  and 
his  strong,  dark  eyes  met  hers  full  and  clear.  **  Never, 
and  you  know  it!  I  will  do  my  duty  by  my  wife,  but  you 
1  will  never  forget!  But  with  you  it  is  different— young, 
and  beautiful,  and  free,  the  image  of  the  man  who  so 
wretchedly  lost  you  need  not  blight  your  life.  We  may 
meet  when  you  are  a  happy  wife — not  before." 

**  Then  we  will  never  meet,"  she  answered,  quietly.  **  I 
am  a  De  Montreuil,  and  I  keep  my  word.  Good-bye,  Al- 
wyn  Bartram,"  she  held  out  her  white  hand,  **  and  for- 
ever! You  go  to  Italy — I  to  France.  We  may  never  cross 
each  other's  paths  again;  but  let  us  remember  there  is  still 
another  land  where  all  may  meet,  and  where  partings  come 
no  more.  There,  mon  ami,"  the  white  hand  pointed  up- 
ward, **  is  the  true  patrie.     Farewell!" 

She  stooped,  kissed  the  hand  that  lay  cold  and  still  in 
hers,  and  flitted  from  the  room. 

A  subtile  odor  of  perfume  lingering  behind — the  echo  of 
the  softest,  sweetest  voice  woman  ever  owned — were  all 
that  remained  to  him  of  the  peerless  Estelle.    ^^ 

He  stood  still — motionless  as  the  marble  ajfifnst  which 
he  leaned — his  face  bowed  upon  his  arm.     Very  mourn- 


:^6 


bstella's  husband. 


I 


fi\2 


fully  floated  in  the  ^ords  of  Leonie's  song:  **  Love  noti 
love  not!"  Oh,  warning  vainly  i^aid !  The  silvery  moon- 
light streamed  between  the  parted  curtains — the  houie  was 
very  still.  The  song  Mrs.  Kutherford  plaintively  sung  was 
the  only  sound  to  disturb  Alwyn  Bartram.  He  stood  there 
mute,  motionless;  and  if  ever  human  suffering  atoned  for 
human  sin,  then  he,  Estella's  husband,  in  that  hour  of 
supreme  despair,  had  redeemed  the  past. 


CHAPTER  XXXn, 

**POST     TENEBRA8     LUX!" 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  a  carriage  drew 
up  before  that  shabby  tenement  house,  where  carriages 
were  a  dream  and  myth,  and  Mr.  Bartram  sprung  out. 

He  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  rapped  at  the  door  of  his  wife's 
room.  There  was  no  response.  He  rapped  again — still 
ailence.     He  turned  the  handle;  the  door  was  locked. 

"The  lady's  gone." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  before  had  admitted 
him.  She  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  peered  at 
him  curiously. 

"  Gone!"  he  echoed,  in  amaze.     **  Gone  where?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

**  I  don't  know,  sir — she  left  no  word.  She  came  into 
my  room,  yesterday,  and  bid  me  good-bye,  and  told  me,  if 
a  gentleman  called,  to  tell  him  she  had  left  for  good. 
That's  all  1  know,  sir." 

The  woman  disapperired.  Alwyn  Bartram  leaned 
against  the  dirty,  begrimed  wall,  sick  at  heart. 

What  did  it  mean?  Was  she  mad?  Why  had  she  run 
away  from  him  again? 

**  ShB  pretended  to  love  me,"  he  thought,  bitterly,  **  and 
she  proved  it — thus  !  But  this  time  1  will  find  her — this 
time  she  shall  not  baffle  me!  Poor  child!  she  is  afraid  to 
trust  me  still." 

He  went  out  rapidly,  re-entered  the  carriage,  and  was 
driven  back  to  his  hotel.  As  he  entered,  a  waiter  met  him 
with  a  sealed  note. 

**  Just  been  left,  sir,  by  a  servant  in  livery.  1  was  about 
to  bring  it  up  to  your  room." 

Mr.  Bartram  took  it^  and  started  visibly.     Ah!  he  knew 


■^.m 


lOve  noti 
y  moon- 
ouie  was 
sung  was 
K)d  there 
;oiied  for 
hour  of 


age  drew 
carriages 
l  out. 
his  wife's 
ain — still 
ked. 

admitted 
peered  at 

ame  into 
Id  me,  if 
or  good. 

leaned 

she  run 

■^y, "  and 
ler — this 
jif  raid  to 

d  was 
let  him 

ras  about 

le  knew 


estella's  husband. 


287 


that  delicate  Italian  hand — that  thick,  perfumed,  glitter* 
ing  paper — that  proud  old  crest,  and  the  motto  beneath, 
"  Tiensta/oy.'* 

What  could  Mile.  De  Montreuil  have  to  say  to  him  now  f 
He  turned  away  and  opened  it.     It  was  eminently  brief: 

**  Monsieur, — Your  wife  is  here.  Come  this  evening, 
and  receive  her  from  my  hand. 

**  ESTELLE." 

His  wife  with  her!  He  crumpled  the  note  fiercely  in  his 
palm. 

"Are  they  both  in  league  against  me,"  he  thought, 
**  that  they  are  resolved  to  make  it  as  bitter  as  they  can? 
1  am  only  human — they  should  not  try  me  too  far.  But  1 
will  go — it  wiJl  be  something  to  look  once  more  upon  7ier 
beautiful  face!" 

As  men  on  the  verge  of  execution  have  stopped  to  make 
elaborate  toilets,  so  on  this  last  evening  Alwyn  Bartram 
stood  before  the  glass,  attiring  himself  as  carefully  as 
though  the  heart  in  his  bosom  did  not  lie  like  lead.  He 
went  through  it  mechanically,  and  his  own  haggard  face, 
and  hollow  eyes,  with  the  deep  bistre  tints  beneath,  told  of 
the  bitterness  within,  so  bravely  and  silently  endured. 

It  was  nearly  eight,  and  the  silvery  moonlight  was  flood- 
ing the  city  streets  with  indescribable  glory,  as  he  rang  the 
door-bell  of  the  French  noble's  familiar  mansion. 

The  servant  who  admitted  him  ushered  him  into  the 
empty  drawing-room,  and  went  i  i  search  of  his  mistress. 

He  crossed  over,  and  stood,  as  on  that  other  night,  lean- 
ing moodily  against  the  chimney-piece,  wondering  vaguely 
which  of  them  would  come — his  wife  or  Estelle,  or  both 
together. 

As  the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  the  door  opened — ho 
lifted  his  somber  eyes,  and  beheld  a  radiant  vision. 

It  was  Estelle  De  Montreuil,  and  in  the  dress  of  a  bride! 

Her  rich  robe  of  dead- white  silk  swept  the  vel?et  carpet 
— diamonds  blazed  upon  the  beautiful  bare  neck  and  arms, 
and  a  crown  of  jeweled  orange-blossoms  sparkled  on  the 
shining  hair.  That  lovely  chevelure  was  no  longer  wreathed 
in  a  coronet  of  velvet  braids  around  the  regal  head,  but 
hung  in  glistening  ringlets  below  the  slender  waist.  Stately 
and  oeautiful  as  a  young  queen  she  stood  before  him,  and 
yet  in  all  her  magnificence  she  had  never  reminded  him  so 


'ii; 


I; 


288 


estella's  husband. 


vividly  of  simple  little  Estellaas  now.  Those  flowing  curls 
were  all  that  was  needed  to  make  the  resemblance  com- 
plete. 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her,  dazed,  stanned.  Dressrd 
as  a  bride — what  did  it  mean? 

**  Monsieur  stands  entranced !''  she  said,  gayly,  coming 
forward.  *'  Speechless  with  admiration,  no  doubt.  Uow 
surprised  you  must  have  been  this  afternoon,  upon  receiv- 
ing my  note!** 

**  1  have  lived  in  a  state  of  perpetual  surprises  of  late,'' 
he  answered;  **  the  power  to  wonder  at  anything  is  fast 
leaving  me.  But  if  it  is  not  impertinent,  I  should  like  to 
know  what  t/iat  dress  means?" 

**  What  it  says — that  1  am  a  bride!" 

He  stood  motionless  as  death. 

"  A  bride!"  he  repeated,  in  a  sort  of  whisper—**  a 
bride  r 

**  A  happy  bride,  monsieur!"  She  came  close  to  him, 
the  delicate  cheeks  flushed,  the  starry  eyes  shining.  **  But 
you — you  do  not  ask  for  your  wife,  and  I  told  you  she  was 
herf  " 

'}.!):> ut  smile — that  radiant  face!  Some  dim  perception  of 
*h.i,  glorious  truth  dawned  upon  him.  He  caught  his 
breath,  his  brain  turning  giddy. 

**  For  God's  sake,  speak!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  **  1  think 
1  am  going  mad!" 

She  held  out  both  lovely  hands — ringless  save  for  one 
plain  circlet  of  gold — the  beautiful  face  luminous  with 
love,  and  light,  and  joy. 

**  Nay,  you  are  sane  at  last,"  she  said.  **  Oh,  Alwyn, 
Alwyn!  don't  you  know  me?" 

And  then  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  he  knew  the 
truth — the  bewildering,  delirious  truth!  His  wife  stood 
before  him! 

*'  Estelle!" 

He  could  utter  no  more — the  room  and  everything  in  it 
was  literally  spinning  round  before  the  strong  man's  eyes. 

**  Estelle,  no  more — Estella  Bartram,  your  wife  I  Oh, 
blind,  blind,  blind  that  you  have  been,  not  to  have  kn  vvu 
long  ago!  Estelle  De  Montreuil  no  longer,  but  your  little 
Essie,  my  darling  husband,  if  you  will  forgive  me  and  take 
me  back!" 

She  threw  herself  upon  his  breast,  in  a  sudden  paroxysm 


'•#.  *>',.vjl. 


Ing  curls 
ce  com- 

Dreasfi 

,  coming 
t.  How 
n  receiv- 

)f  late/' 
g  is  fast 
id  like  to 


per—**  a 

to  him, 
.  "  But 
1  she  was 

eption  of 
ught  his 

1  think 

for  one 
>us  with 

Alwyn, 

[new  the 
I  stood 


|ing  in  it 
I's  eyes. 

>I  Oh, 
ki)  'vvu 
)ur  little 
ind  take 

iroxysm 


ESTELLAS    Hl'SBAND. 


289 


of  womanly  weeping,  clinging  to  him  with  convulsive 
strength. 

**  At  last,  my  husband,  you  love  me — at  last  the  pain, 
the  misery,  the  long,  lonely,  dreary  years  of  separation, 
are  at  an  end!  Oh,  my  darling — my  darling!  the  dream 
of  my  life  is  won!" 

He  held  her  to  him  close — close.  But  he  did  not  speak 
— he  could  not;  his  heart  seemed  ready  to  burst — full  of 
an  ecstasy  that  was  nigh  akin  to  pain.  She  lifted  her 
lovely  face,  pale  and  tear-stained,  in  a  piteous,  childish  ap- 
peal, that  reminded  him  of  the  **  Little  Essie  "  of  other 
days. 

*'  You  are  not  angry,  Alvvyn?  Oh,  speak  to  me — tell 
me  you  love  me — tell  me  you  are  glad  you  have  found 
your  long-lost  wife!" 

"Glad!"  he  repeated— " ^7«<? /  Oh,  Estella!  words 
are  nothing — I  can  not  say  what  is  in  my  heart!  I  can 
only  say,  thank  God!" 

It  was  an  hour  later.  Side  by  side  on  the  sofa  these  re- 
united lovers  sat,  beginning  to  rationally  realize  their  su- 
preme bliss  at  last. 

**  How  ten  years  must  have  altered  me,"  Estella  said, 
**  since  you  did  not  know  me!  I  have  changed  greatly,  I 
know,  in  every  respect,  and  I  was  not  surprised  that  Leonie 
should  not  recognize  me;  but  you — yes,  I  did  think,  Al- 
wyn,  you  would  know  your  wife." 

**  I  always  saw  the  resemblance,"  Alwyn  answered, 
'*  and  once  the  idea  struck  me  that  you  might  be  my 
Estella,  there  were  so  many  coincidences;  but  1  drove  the 
idea  from  me,  as  the  maddest  of  mad  i  omances.  My  little, 
pale,  timid  Essie  had  so  little  in  common  with  this  regally 
Deautiful,  this  queenly  Mademoiselle  De  Montreuil,  with 
the  best  blood  of  France  in  her  patrician  veins,  that  I  think 
even  I  may  be  pardoned  for  not  recognizing  you.  But, 
Estella,  ivhy  did  you  not  tell  me  at  once?" 

"  Ah,  1  am  only  a  woman  like  the  rest,  and  I  did  want 
my  husband  to  love  me!" 

"  Well,  you  speedily  attained  that  wish.  Heaven  knows. 
Why  did  you  not  speak  then?" 

**  Because,  sir,  you  didn't  deserve  it,  and  revenge  is 
sweet!  I  had  suffered — I  am  not  going  to  flatter  your 
masculine  vanity  now  by  saying  how  much — and  it  was 

10 


290 


estella's  husband. 


only  poetic  juRtice  that  you  should  sufTor,  too.  And  ii 
was  so  delightful — the  idea  of  playing  incognito — in  seeing 
your  infatuation,  your  hopeless  infatuation,  for  your  own 
wife—your  despised  little  Essie!  Besides,  1  had  very  se- 
rious doubts  of  you,  monsieur.  You  were  in  love  with 
Count  JJeMontreuil's  daughter,  but  supposing  she  accepted 
your  love,  and  your  runaway  wife  turned  up,  how  would 
you  act?  Alwyn,  if  you  had  done  other  than  as  you  have 
done,  you  would  never  have  known  mo!  1  would  have 
gone  back  to  France,  and  never  looked  upon  your  face 
again.  But  principle  conquered  passion — you  nobly  re- 
deemed the  past,  and  made  me  too  ha])py  for  words  to  tell.  '* 

There  was  an  eloquent  silence,  and  Mr.  Bartram  kissed 
his  wife.     Then — 

**  Does  the  count  know?"  he  inquired. 

**  I  told  him  to-day.  You  should  have  seen  his  face, 
Alwyn;  and  Leonie's,  for  of  course  1  told  her  too."  She 
laughed  merrily  at  the  recollection.  "Poor  Leonie!  I 
don't  think  she  will  return  with  us  to  Paris.  Ever  since 
I  let  the  murder  out,  she  has  shut  herself  up  in  her  room 
en  penitence.  But  I  don't  despair  of  her  ultimate  recov- 
ery." 

"Neither  do  1,"  said  Mr.  Bartram,  rather  cynically- 
"  We  don't  break  our  hearts  in  these  latter  days.  But, 
Essie,  look  here — how  did  you  manage  the  other  night, 
when  indulging  in  your  private  theatricals?  1  left  yon  be- 
hind me  in  the  tenement  house,  and  I  found  you  here  be- 
fore me,  elaborately  dressed,  upon  my  arrival.  Explain 
that  little  circumstance,  madame." 

**  It  is  very  easily  explained,"  was  the  answer.  "  You 
walked,  and  it  took  you  fully  an  hour.  1  rode,  and  ir  did 
not  take  me  quarter  that  time.  The  carriage  was  waiting 
for  me  in  the  next  street,  and  as  for  my  toilet,  I  possess  a 
maid  who  is  past-mistress  of  her  art.  1  am  afraid  it  was 
rather  silly,  all  that  acting,  but  1  know  I  enjoyed  it  thor- 
oughly, and  you  deserved  the  punishment.  How  delight- 
fully miserable  you  looked!" 

*'  You  heartless  Xantippe!  But  the  time  of  retribution 
has  come;  you  shall  be  paid  back  in  your  own  coin.  Oh, 
Estella,  Estella!"  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice,  a  sud- 
den, passionate  clasping  to  his  heart—"  is  this  all  an  en- 
chanting dream?  Will  I  ever  be  able  to  realize  my  great 
bliss?    What  have  I  done  to  be  so  blessed?" 


ISTELLA'S    HUyJlAND. 


f»l 


0.     And  14 
) — in  seeing 
r  your  own 
111(1  very  se- 
iu  love  with 
she  accepted 
,  how  would 
as  you  have 
would  have 
m  your  face 
11   nobly  re- 
jrds  to  tell." 
^rtram  kissed 


leen  his  face, 
T  too."  She 
3r  Leonie'.  I 
.  Ever  since 
)  in  her  room 
Itimate  rccov- 

ler  cynically- 
days.  But, 
other  night, 

1  left  you  be- 
you  here  be- 
al.     Explain 

5wer.  "  You 
le,  and  ir  did 
was  waiting 
it,  I  possess  a 
I  afraid  it  was 
hoyed  it  thor- 
THow  delight- 

)f  retribution 
In  coin.  Oh, 
1  voice,  a  sud- 
Ihis  all  an  en- 
lize  my  great 


She  lay  on  his  broad,  true  breast,  pale  from  rery  excm 
of  joy. 

**  We  need  the  discipline,"  she  murmured.  **  We  will 
be  all  the  happier  in  the  future  for  the  sorrow  of  the  past. 
Estella  and  her  husband  will  never  doubt  each  other  more." 

*  ♦  in  «  «  He  le 

Three  days  later.  Count  De  Montrouil,  his  daughter,  and 
his  daughter's  husband,  sailed  for  France.  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford declined  being  one  of  the  party,  and  remained  in  New 
York. 

The  romantic  story  got  wind  at  once,  of  course,  and  was 
the  nine-days'  wonder  of  the  city.  The  people  talked  of  it, 
the  papers  teemed  with  it;  it  created  a  furore  unprecedent- 
ed. But  Estella  and  her  hu&band  were  far  away  on  the 
"  heaving  sea,"  and  all  their  new  celebrity  fell  harmless. 

Mr.  George  Waldron  pulled  his  tawny  mustache,  and 
looked  plaintive. 

*'  It  is  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich.  My  grand- 
mother used  to  say  so;  and  gad!  I  believe  the  old  lady  wau 
right.  To  think  of  the  luck  that  fellow  Bartram  has  come 
to,  while  better  men  go  begging!  The  women  always 
adored  him;  his  pictures  sell  like  wildfire;  two  fortunes 
fall  to  him  together;  and  now  a  third,  and  the  loveliest 
wife  under  the  starry  sky.  By  Jove!  it's  enough  to  make 
ft  man  go  mxd  cut  his  throat.'' 


IBB  SVDW 


